


A Shared Destiny

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Cursed Character, Fairy Tale Elements, Fate & Destiny, M/M, Slow Burn, Witcher AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22274236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: The rumours say that the Crown Prince of Lucis has been cursed since birth and that death follows him. The King commissions a Witcher to bring his son to him when the world starts to narrow and the threat of war is on their borders. After all, Witchers know all about monsters and curses.Nyx was never too clear on his job description, but it was hard to be a hero when just escorting a royal brat to a royal father.
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Nyx Ulric
Comments: 46
Kudos: 92





	1. Guardhouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JazzRaft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzRaft/gifts), [glaivenoct](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glaivenoct/gifts).



The manor house was far more foreboding in the grey sheets of rain cloaking it. The damp and cold seemed to seep through the bricks and across the fields, the long grasses of the unkempt yards nearly bent double with the weight of the storm. The water ran from the tiled roof in rivulets, forming its own curtain within the storm to obscure the manor further from the road— like a cloak to keep the warmth of the lights inside from escaping out into the cold and wet of the night. The steady streams pulsed with the winds beating against the depressing grey stones; a shroud across the soft lights of the window already partially obscured by the gathering night outside and the heavy curtains within. 

“Hey!”

The voice had barely carried over the wind and beating of the rain. A distant rumble of thunder threatening a worse evening for anyone on the muddy roads. Nyx’s boots had already been slipping in the much as he trudged along, his legs burning with the strain of trying to travel in the heavy mud churned by passing carts. He knew how he must look, his cloak wrapped close and his jacket sealed against the storm, eyeing up the grey and golds of the manor across the unkempt fields. 

“Want to get out of the rain, stranger?”

Nyx tucked his wolf’s medallion into his shirt before he turned to the cheerful guard waving at him from the shelter of the guardhouse eaves. He sized up the young man— the friendly smile, the armour with barely a scratch on it, the long bow held loosely in his hand— and approached, boots slipping again in the mire and muck of the roads. His own friendly smile in greeting was genuine, and he opened his cloak to the wind long enough to show his sheathed weapons to the young guard. “Are you sure you have room in that hut?”

“Plenty of room,” the young man smiled brightly again, opening the heavy doors to show the inviting warmth of the shelter; “unless you prefer the rain?”

Nyx offered a shrug in deference to the logic and stepped into the shelter of the guardhouse. A welcoming fire crackled in the hearth, torches matched the cheery young soldier, and the fat of a healthy roast dripped from a spit over the flames— the sizzle of the meat a perfume in the air that barely escaped the little haven of light. The vivid ward against the night’s dark storm already chasing the damp and cold that had seeped through the cloak and armour. 

“Help yourself,” the soldier didn’t follow him in, but lingered by the door. Framed by the wide doors, the man seemed smaller that Nyx first thought— the uniform tailored to his small frame, but ill suited to his sunny disposition; “You can stay the night, at least. Where were you heading?”

“Just down the road. There was a town there last I passed through.”

“Was is right,” Prompto offered that sunny, cheery smile against the dark of the rain. “Don’t think there’s much there now. Everyone moved back the way you were coming from.”

“Thought that seemed bigger than I remember.” Nyx indicated the roast over the fire and the barrels and baskets of produce still tucked away beneath cloth for safe keeping. Prompto leaned on his longbow and offered a shrug of his own in response; “Lots of farms around here? Or were these all gifts from the manor up there?”

“I’m here to guard something, right?”

The invitation to the fire and food still hung between them. Nyx shrugged off his cloak rather than ask more questions that would keep him from the warm meal and soft straw beds that were pushed up against one wall. Outside, the rain and winds beat against the sturdy little building; creaks and groans competed with the cheerful smile of the chipper guard still sheltered beneath the eaves outside. Nyx indicated the pitcher on the edge of the table in the centre of the narrow living space and smiled as Prompto nodded. 

Two cups were poured and the guard was finally tempted in out of the rain as well. “You’re guarding the road? Or the manor house?”

“Both,” Prompto took his cup; “and what brings you out this way instead of taking the main road?”

Nyx paused, there were only a handful of reasons people stayed off the the main roads in backwater places like this. None of them would help allay any suspicion— he could be a thief, an outlaw, a…

“Want a story, do you?”

“Helps pass the time.”

Beneath the beating storm and night broken by the rumble of approaching thunder, Nyx told the young guard a story of a monster that had lurked through the swamps not too far from the manor roads— a kelpie that had been enchanting the maidens from other nearby farms and villages that bordered the expanse of wetlands, until the resulting rulsaki had started to become a bigger problem. Nests of the creatures starting to form in the deeper waters at the centre of the swamps. The fire warmed the chill from his bones as the guard listened— as the monsters crawled from the dark and cold and wandered the overgrown fields being reclaimed by the spreading wetland. The rivulets streaming from the clay tiles of the roof became the blood dripping from the sharp teeth and sharper claws of the things born of nightmares and cautionary tales told by worried parents to children cowering beneath their covers. 

He told the young guard of the battle in the swamp. Of the ethereal horse that had charged him with the waif-like rusalki on its back, fangs and claws and covered in the bloody mire. Of the nest cleared by the smoke that had billowed through the trees only hours ago, and set the final charge in motion as the cursed creatures tracked him to where field and swamp met. He set aside his kukri— silver and steel, the blood still staining the leather of the scabbards— as he told the story of the village on the other side of the swamp that had lost nearly a dozen young men to the creatures nesting in the muck and murky waters. 

He didn’t tell the young man of the payment he had taken for the service. Or the haggling that had happened to work out the final price for the service. 

And as the storm emptied its fury against the little hut, Nyx noticed that Prompto had closed his hand around the hilt of the sharp little dagger on his hip. The other hand white knuckled around the cup of ale that had barely been touched. Nyx had to admire the calm confidence in Prompto’s next words.

“You’re a monster hunter then? A Witcher?”

“That obvious?”

“A little, yeah.” There was no easing of the grip on his dagger, or the cup. But Prompto did take a drink of the ale; “Is there a… A job? Another one, I mean. Near here?”

“Am I here to kill something near this guardhouse, you mean.”

It was a statement, a clarification, and Nyx noticed the way Prompto’s eyes darted to the manor house still lit against the dark of the night and the rain before he nodded. 

“There’s no job for me here,” Nyx reassured the young guard, setting his empty cup aside with the remnants of the dinner shared through the story. “Unless you have some monster than needs killing.”

“No. No monsters around here that I know of.”

“Too bad, I could use the money,” Nyx moved over to the straw bed, stretching out on it. “I’ll be out of your hair by morning. Just need a couple of hours.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay, a couple of hours.”

Morning came on the turn of cart wheels churning the muddy roads, the rattle of the tired wood interrupting any cheerful chirping songbirds. Nyx heard Prompto’s tired greeting to another and pulled himself up on the straw bed in a state of half-wakefulness, sluggish from sleeping longer than he had expected. He could hear the steady pulse of the last of the rain dripping down into puddles and mud; the songbirds that signalled the golden morning breaking over the overgrown manor estate, and the cracking and creaking of branches in the breeze. There was something creeping through the woods across the road from the old manor house, and the cry of a bird of prey somewhere over the fields. 

He could hear the gruff greeting of the replacement guard, here with fresh eyes to relieve Prompto for the day.

His cloak had dried in the night, used as a blanket to spare the guards’ own linen stores. He settled it across his shoulders and retrieved his weapons even as his stomach protested another skipped meal and sudden alertness. 

“Who the fuck is this?” The gruff guard— taller, heavier, broader, and far more imposing— practically growled. The man’s armour was scarred and scuffed, far more battle-worn than Prompto’s own lighter armour. And Nyx sized him up in the small space of the guardhouse, but kept his hands off his weapons as he got a good look at the bulk of muscles and distrust in the man’s eyes. 

“He was just passing—” 

“A Witcher?” 

Nyx realized too late that his guild medallion had slipped from his shirt in the night, and now caught the morning sun in the silver jaws of the wolf against his chest. “Nyx of Galahd. And I’m just leaving.”

“Good.” The new guard was just as young as Prompto, but clearly having been training for longer. Had clearly taken to it and his duties better than Prompto— seemed more eager to adhere to whatever orders they might have been given rather than tolerate Prompto’s good will. He stopped Nyx with a broad hand on his chest, a threat in his eyes; “No trouble in the area, right?”

“Not enough to keep me here.”

The new guard let him pass and stepped aside; “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

As he stepped out into the morning light, Prompto offered him an apologetic smile and a small nod— which was far more acknowledgement than Nyx was used to getting when he was kicked back out to the road. The world breathed around him, and the road stretched on in all its muddy glory before him— the cart settled a few inches in already; the cold and damp of the night giving way to the stretching blue sky and the looming shadows of the forest that no longer carried the foreboding weight it used to. At a glance the manor estate was still dormant, despite the change of the guards, and the new day bringing its promise of life.

He turned from the noise of the guards talking like old friends in the guardhouse and followed the tracks left by the cart. The new guard had not come from the quiet of the manor, and Nyx settled in for a long walk to the nearest town on an empty stomach. 

The day stretched out like the fields around him— the unkempt overgrowth giving way to the carefully tended fields of Lucian farms instead. It was a border road, and if he stayed following the road like this— the small and twisting back roads that avoided the traffics of the few more prominent cities in the kingdom— he knew that he would reach the warm and sunny coast first. It would be an easy thing to stop at a ferry town and buy passage to Galahd or Accordo, where a Witcher was a novelty and granted work just for the sake of status gossip. There were sirens in both island nations that he could barter with, fishermen who had demons they would want cleared from their reefs. Even the thick forests of Galahd would be more welcoming with its bandits and nymphs lurking through the deep canyons and wild spaces. 

But the commission in his breast pocket kept him to the road in Lucis. 

There was a job to be done, and the pay would be enough to keep the school in business for a few years more.


	2. The Little Town

No town in the backwaters of a kingdom ever really changed. The larger villages had a tendency to grow when the harvests were bad or the roads were closed— people flocked to the safety of higher walls when the dangers of forests and strange noises in the night started to crawl across the open fields. And Lucis was mostly made of open fields. Its little outposts grew in particular spots that could be good for trade— along deep rivers, on roads that crossed the kingdom from coast to coast— while the little collections of farms and huts dried up as the world got smaller. 

This town, Nyx supposed, started as a collection of farms. It had been a gathering of land and farmhands, until one landlord sold off his parcels and declared himself a mayor. Until the King caught wind of it and installed his own government in place, letting the soldiers stationed there have the freedom to bore themselves with the petty comings and goings of a smaller road.

“No work for a Witcher here,” the King’s alderman said after only the most cursory glance over Nyx in his muddied cloak and armour. “You’ll want to try back by the forest, heard they got a nasty nest of something in the swamp.”

“Not anymore.” Nyx pulled the commission from his pocket and offered it to the alderman for inspection; “I need information.”

The King’s seal was on everything in the room, from ledgers to letters to the thick leather bound journal of accounts the alderman was filling in. The man’s eyes widened when he saw the same seal on the letter pulled from the Witcher’s pocket. 

“What’s this?”

“My work. I just need to know if the manor back by the forest is the only one in these parts. And what can you tell me about the curse on it?”

The book of accounts was closed and the alderman took the letter of commission— the promise of safe passage, of rations if needed, for a set period of time. There was a charge in the letter; instructions laid out for any official to provide information as needed, for any guard to escort the bearer forward to the correct destination. For civilians to stay out of the way. And all signed in the elegant, nigh-illegible signature of King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII. 

The alderman hesitated, but handed the letter back to the Witcher with an acknowledgement that everything was in order. “Three weeks is it?”

“The manor, and the curse?”

“Yes, yes, that’s the manor you’re looking for. His Highness hasn’t left that place in years, but the court wizard kept coming around for supplies every few months. Always looked more like he was cooking a stew than brewing potions if you ask me.”

Nyx folded and tucked the letter back into his pocket. “I didn’t. And the curse?”

“They say the Prince is a ferocious little demon. Cursed by an uncle who would usurp the throne—”

“Or by the rival kingdom of Niflheim, I know. What are the details of the curse? Horns? Transformation? Bloodlust?”

“Aye.”

“Which one?”

“Well, all of them, I think.”

“You think?”

“Never got a look at his Royal Highness, you know. No one goes up there except the wizard and some guards who stay out by the road last I heard.” The alderman stood from his desk and searched the bookshelves for some record that might help the Witcher with his mission— might ingratiate himself to the cause so when he sent in his report, the King would know what he had done to assist the visitor in his care. “But there were nannies when the curse was placed, and house staff from another farmstead here and there.”

“And?”

“And they all went missing. Lost a few of our own here over the years. Some good men who tended the gardens and farm on the manor land, and maids from my own house a few years back.”

“How many years?”

“Six or seven.” A book was pulled from the shelves and the alderman flipped it open to the appropriate pages, offering the census record up to the Witcher for examination. Nyx counted the list of missing and presumed dead citizens over the course of months, then years. “Only thing they all did was work at the manor with the Prince.”

“And the bodies?”

“No bodies. They say the Prince eats them.”

“Right,” Nyx scoured the pages and compared the notes from a decade back— from nearly two decades back; “from when he was two?”

The alderman shrugged his response and offered the same tired smile Nyx had seen on a dozen or more town leaders in his years travelling. All he had was hearsay and gossip, despite the records. No bodies could mean anything. Nyx flipped to the more recent census lists again and looked over the names of the missing— each citizen given a courtesy description of hair and eye colour, build and occupation if there was one. “And your maid who disappeared, she had red hair and amber eyes?”

“Yes, yes I think so. Pretty thing she was.”

Nyx thought back to the rusulka who rode the kelpie— her russet hair clinging to her pallid body dragged from the swamp, blood in her eyes to tint the red with a base of honey brown. Her misshapen hands clinging to the reed mane of the kelpie like an experienced rider. The maid had been from a stable not far from the edge of town, Nyx had admired the horses there and counted his coins carefully before making his way into town. 

“And you’re certain of all these connections? Nothing else was going on?”

“No… Not that I heard.” 

Nyx offered the book back and knew that there was little information he could gather in town if this was all that left in the official records. He would have better luck seeking out the families of the alleged victims in the matter, or speaking with the guards wandering the town to better understand what they were meant to be guarding against. “Thanks.”

“Of course, if there’s anything else I can provide—“

“I’m going to need a horse.”

He was directed to a stable out at the edge of town. It was a fair enough distance from the bustle of the market streets, bu closer to the main roads. He had refused a letter of promise the alderman had offered, and insisted on the coin instead— enough, as he asked, for something better than the beasts he had seen mounted by the bored guards roaming the village. It would be a recorded expense, he knew, and sent to King Regis in tax season, just as his payment for the work in the swamps would be granted back to the soon-to-be-prosperous-again fishing village when the royal tax collectors made their rounds with the summer and autumn harvests. 

Nyx was used to being written off as just another useful expense at best. 

The stables were almost a haven against the main roads. Coming from the capital along the road and he could see it as the first sign of real civilization after a few weeks’ ride from the Crown City. Fenced fields were filled with a herd, stallions separated by the lane approaching the humble house that had been dwarfed by the stables’ barns. He thought it would have looked like a dozen other waypoints along the same road if not for the strange silver colour the barns had been painted— like a dull metal had been set out to catch the eye and draw travellers in. 

There was even a little pub bearing the same sign that hung over each gate. Nyx frowned as his medallion offered a soft beat against his chest as he started towards the little establishment.

“Welcome to Hammerhead,” a woman greeted him, leading a buckskin filly from stables to pasture; “what can I help you with?”

“I need a horse.”

“Didn’t think you were here for a chicken, stranger. What did you have in mind?” Lucis, it seemed, was full of chipper blondes. First the yellow-haired and cheerful guard from the manor, and now this petite woman with golden curls brushing her dirt-smudged cheeks. “You don’t strike me as a farmer looking for a new beast to pull the plough.”

Nyx offered a wry smile in response; “Travelling. I need stamina over speed.”

“I can work with that,” The woman smiled brightly again, and started off toward one of the long stables with long, confident strides despite the muck and mud coating everything in her path. “We have some spirited runners if you’re entering races.”

“No, no races, just travelling.”

“Fine, fine, take a look through here.”

The stables were dim despite the late afternoon sun— shutters still drawn over the windows against the storm from the night before. Young men were moving wet hay and feed from near the outer walls, where the rains would have seeped in with with winds, and paused to watch him walk the long line of horses being offered up. He heard one boy scurry past him after some hushed whispers to his companions, only to be followed by the woman’s disdainful shooing instead. He heard the familiar undercurrent of hissed ‘Witcher, its a Witcher’ in the quiet of the barn, and refocused on the task at hand instead. 

Youthful feet were shooed out of the stable, and he could hear the worn boots beating against the slow-drying grounds of the open yards. 

He paused as a demure looking blue roan mare with a dark mane who was happily ignoring him in favour of her dinner. 

“She’s a good one, stranger,” the stable mistress said as she approached; “She’s sturdy, and doesn’t run from much.”

“I’ll take her.”

“Saddle’s extra, you know.”

“I figured.”

“I’ll give you a saddlebag,” the woman punched his arm with a grin, “because I like you.”

“Appreciate that,” Nyx smiled, deciding that he liked the woman. 

They worked out a price and Nyx wandered off to the little pub while she got things ready for the road. There was going to be more to get— feed, a brush, supplies, all of the things he had sold off when his last mount met an unfortunate end along a mountain path— struck and stolen by a roc whose hatchling down he had been hired to collect. The job hadn’t paid enough to replace the horse. 

“You’re a Witcher.”

It was a statement, not a question. And fired at him from an elderly man glaring against the sun as he approached. 

“I am.”

A cart rumbled down the distant lane across the wide farm yard, turning away from the main roads. He felt the faintest movement from his medallion and tried to focus on the three figures riding on the old wood of the cart. The old man grumbled and stepped up to him, looking him over. 

“What brings you here then? I ain’t paying you for some beast you killed while it was minding its own business.”

“A horse.”

“What?”

“I needed a horse,” the cart trundled off along the back roads an Nyx sighed at the mystery thwarted for now. “And now I need a drink.”

“You get your horse?”

“Yes?”

“Good, then hit the road.”

“Paw-paw!” The woman came out of the stable with the mare Nyx had just purchased, a young man carrying the saddle; “That’s no way to—“

“I’ll talk to him however I please. He’s trouble.”

“I’m Nyx,” Nyx clarified, looking the mare over in the better light outside. She looked strong, if a little bored with the whole exchange happening around her. He supposed he could project as much as he wanted on his own horse; “of Galahd.”

The old man huffed, and the woman smiled brightly in response; “Nice to meet you. I’m Cindy, and you’re all set to go when you’re ready. This here’s Flora, but you might change that, I guess. What’s a name for a Witcher’s horse anyway?”

“Flora is good. Thank you, Cindy.” He offered a smile of his own to the old man, a clear bait to the man’s ire. “Don’t worry, I’m on my way.”

The man waved him off and continued on to the pub with his own confident stride in the muck. Nyx soothed the horse as she was saddled and readied, and as Cindy drew up the papers to confirm the sale, ‘just in case’ as she said. He assumed there was a rash of thefts everywhere across the kingdom— horses, goods, anything else that could be relieved from an unsuspecting traveller not as well armed as Nyx. 

“Cindy,” Nyx indicated the road the cart had trundled down; “where does that road lead to?”

“Just one of the back roads,” the woman answered, blowing on the papers to dry the ink of her signature. She straightened from the barrels she had used as a makeshift table. “No way back to town that way, unless you want to add a few hours to your trip.”

“Does it go past the manor house?”

“Don’t rightly know. I never travel there myself. Just get the guards down for meals once in a while,” the papers were folded together and she offered that sunny smile again; “You best get back to town. They say there’s demons on the roads at night.”

“Only if someone is summoning them, Cindy.” Nyx started to lead the mare toward the main road. He was already planning his route back around to the manor without being noticed by the villagers, or the people at this little ranch. At least cutting across the fields would be scenic.


	3. Approaching the Manor House

There was a marked difference between the untouched fields around the little village and the unkempt yards of the manor and its estates. The farms had fallen into disarray, the back roads and lanes disappearing into wild wheats that had been left unchecked in the shadow of the abandoned buildings scattered across the open lands. Old barns had started to crumble beneath neglect and the weather, but their presence dwarfing the little farmhouses and homesteads spoke to the value of the disused lands. Nyx knew from his own Path that the land was still good— that the homes could still be remade or rebuilt, the little shells of the old hovels and farmhouses could still be cut from the overgrown fields and reseeded in the right season. Grain stores could easily overflow in the sort of summer this year had brought, if those grains weren’t left to grow wild with the grasses.

But something had driven the people away from good land. 

Something more than just the monsters in the wetlands that had dragged men and women from the safety of dry grounds. Something more than what was whispered among the small villages and budding towns with rumours and gossip that warned people from the back roads and trails. The disappearances and losses, the missing members of a community that gave rise to stories and slander and the darkness that had loomed over the quiet roads had all be built up over years. 

Nyx knew that those sorts of words held power in backwater worlds like this. Scared people believed anything. 

He could see the warm light of the guardhouse across the yard, the silhouette of the short guard in his pristine armour pacing in the clear night along the front road. A dark figure that moved every few minutes in an impatient back and forth across the approach to the imposing manor house. It was a shadow across the field for him, a soft light against the backdrop of the dimming sky and the rising gloom of the forest now safe for the Lucian citizens looking to tame the swamp. Nyx knew that he was still too far— that it was too dark already, the wrong direction— for the guard to see him. He would be an unusual shape to human eyes now, a rider at best (if the moon was higher) moving through the dark fields. 

For nights like this when he needed the quiet to plan he was glad he wasn’t limited by human sight. He wasn’t limited by the dull human senses that couldn’t distinguish the shapes of shadows in the field, or the sounds scurrying along the roads.

Dusk had settled over the unkempt yards, but Nyx’s cat-eyes could see the rickety little carriage that had trundled off from the Hammerhead Ranch— the trail of it nearly lost in the overgrowth as he realized he was actually following an old road that had fallen into disuse over the years. Its trail was almost entirely lost to the field and wild grass— a length of uneven ground that the cart could navigate through years of familiarity and the experience. It would have once connected the main road to the estate farms— granaries and stock roads connected to the nearest markets past the manor expanse, now the waste of open ruins he had been passing all afternoon. He had picked the carriage’s trail out from the bent grasses and the broken clay ground, followed it as easily as any other trail without realizing that the driver had been following a road only those who lived in the area a long time would know.

He led the horse, Flora, around the back of the manor, near a small grove that may have once been part of a garden, and stayed astride as he thought his actions through. 

Clearly there was a secret here. And the source of it bubbled up from the manor. 

Whomever owned that carriage left the ranch once that stablehand had brought news of his presence to the old man, to any guests they had been told to warn. The ranch had protected the secret where the town’s alderman had allowed himself to believe the stories that would have brought other Witchers to his door over the years. The carriage carried that secret well, spurred forward with those words of warning. It had followed the back roads through the overgrowth to avoid trouble, despite the uncertainty of these wilds. He could see the tracks where the grass had been bent, he could feel the residual magic in the air— a steady hum of illusion he wasn’t interested in testing any more than he had to. It mingled with the inviting scent of fresh bread and the promise of golden fires emanating from the manor house. It cast the manor as a haven, rather than a foreboding shadow to warn travellers to stay away. 

Some magic user was trying to make the place feel like a home rather than a prison. Rather than some impossible lair of a demon prince everyone claimed it was.

He checked the letter in his pocket again— the King’s Commission— and made a decision. 

The manor wasn’t as big or imposing as he first thought. There were few windows around the back that had been lit with the firelight of regular use, but he could see the shapes of uncovered furniture through the few windows left open to the night sky and view of the stars. There was no room he had seen yet that was out of use, void of any sign of human life, or twisted into some dungeon for a monster. Though there was always the cellar.

He didn’t walk to hide the sound of his step, leading the horse with one hand behind him as the beast tried to tear at the long grasses with every short pause. He could see movement in the hallways, the manor narrower that he expected to see— front rooms occupied here and there by moving shapes, but he suspected the repetition of the movements to signal an illusion, rather than actual staff bustling through the halls. He made as much noise as any traveller would make— lost and in the dark, worried for the horse that couldn’t see the harm of gopher holes in the overgrown field— and tried to ignore the invitation extended by the house to test the doors. 

Instead, he focused on the obvious discrepancy that no wizard could ever predict.

There was a young man sitting out by a by a pond, with a fishing rod in hand. His back was to the manor itself, the light from the open back door barely stretching across the modest plot dug from the once grand gardens to touch his back. The pond seemed like the natural sort— a spring raised naturally from whatever source they had tapped for their wells— but was once walled on one side as a fixture for the garden. The trees still stood to frame the backdrop of the calm fields and stretch of shining stars arching overhead as the moon rose higher. Despite the light of the open door and manor warmth, the young man was a mop of messy dark hair and dark clothes, back curled in focus on the rod in his hands.

Nyx knew he had been spotted. He offered a friendly smile with a hand raised in greeting as he drew closer. “Hello.”

“You lost?” The voice that reached him could have belonged to any soft spoken villager intent on minding his own business. 

“Maybe,” Nyx stepped closer, hoping the image of a lost traveller might be more believable with a horse at his back. “I’m looking for someone.”

The young man frowned a moment, and Nyx could see quicksilver in his eyes as he glanced back to the open door of the manor, as he assessed the situation against the experience he had. There was a shift in his grip on the rod, a subtle turn to give him an easier way to rise and bolt if needed; “Anyone in particular?”

The Prince didn’t look like a monster. 

Nyx could see the family resemblance with the King. The clever eyes, the dark hair, the lips that seemed to want to smile by good nature alone. But no hint of fangs, or horns, or dark wings waiting to unfurl beneath the light summer clothes. Instead, he looked like a normal young man. A normal young man with a fishing rod being pulled from a dark little pond barely graced by the light spilling from the open manor door. He seemed at home next to the little ruined garden, with the stars above and the scattered stone of the old garden walls and fixtures scattered around him. 

He looked like one of the young heroes from stories Nyx used to amuse himself with as a child— the dashing young Prince of some small kingdom, waiting for some curse to be broken. 

Only he wasn’t cursed, as far as Nyx could tell at a glance. The horse seemed happy enough to try approaching for attention, and his wolf’s medallion only hummed with the magic in the air that had been buzzing around the manor house since he approached. There was no sudden thump against his chest, or burn of silver warning him of a hidden danger— just a soft hum no worse than when he stood in any court with a magician or on a solstice. 

In answer, Nyx offered the letter from his jacket pocket; “Only a Prince being summoned home.”

The young man finally stood, fishing rod discarded on the bank as he approached to take the letter. A pause as he read the words laid out for the Witcher’s safe passage and mission, and Nyx wondered if he had been mistaken about the young man. The light from the manor was warm and soft, the moon waning as it climbed. But the Prince’s quicksilver eyes, shining like starlight, didn’t waver as he read the ink on the paper. There was a pause as the Prince seemed to consider the letter— a longer pause than Nyx was used to in these matters, most people who had needed to see the commission seemed to like stating their own importance immediately after. 

The Prince sighed and nodded, folding the letter with its royal seal but not handing it back to the Witcher before him. “You should probably come inside then.”

Inside of the manor house was more homey than Nyx had thought. The backdoor had led them through a small receiving room (which confirmed his suspicions about the run down and unkempt gardens once being more prominent than a handful of tended vegetables and a fish pond), where the cheerful fire in the hearth still felt unnaturally inviting. It was a small sitting room, all told, with none of the decadence he would have expected a royal household. There were books liking the shelves on the wall, as well as trophies made of mounted fish and the occasional set of antlers spaced between paintings of the landscape as it was in its peak. The rich carpet was faded and worn, with no indication of being replaced. 

But it felt loved and lived in. 

The horse had been tethered outside, and he heard her satisfied snorts as small feet rushed from somewhere in the dark to set down a pail of what he assumed would be oats or water. It was the small, hurried steps he had heard out at the ranch— the child who had warned the carriage driver that a Witcher was around. 

“It’s Talcott,” the Prince said, glancing out the window to be sure; “he’ll look after your horse.”

“We’ll have her moved to the stables for the night,” came a more articulated voice— the prim and proper intonations Nyx was more familiar with from the courts. Specifically from their attending wizards and witches— the clipped, self-assured notes of a student who thought he was a teacher at times. “If you intend to stay the night.”

The Prince held out the royal commission to the new face and Nyx waited for the little frown to appear that he knew would be coming. His medallion thrummed against his chest in the man’s presence, the source of the magic that bound the manor seeping through the very air around them. 

With a sigh, the wizard offered the letter back to Nyx; “No particular reason? His Majesty just requests his Highness home?”

“I wasn’t told a reason,” Nyx said— which wasn’t entirely a lie. He followed the wizard’s indication that they should move from the sitting room through to the more lively kitchen. The King’s confidence had been supported by rumours from neighbouring kingdoms— pleas that had fallen to the royal court to hear for aid in the border towns and provinces under the care of the sprawling Lucian kingdom. There were noises and rumours stretching inward from the borders that Nyx was certain had reached the manor at some point or another. 

There may be war brewing from the north. 

But that wasn’t his business here. His business was moving to the long, well-worn kitchen table stacked high with pristine plates and flour-dusted bowls. There were books piled around the room, some opened and others marked with strips of paper. The room buzzed with the remnants of magic and Nyx had felt it a dozen times or more since he was a child— since he had started on his Path across the kingdoms and empires of the world. This little kitchen, with its warmth and comfort and cupboards overflowing with ingredients real and duplicated and pulled from chaos felt like a witch’s tower. It was the beating pulse of the magician’s power, golden and promising. Normally, these sorts of places— studies, gardens, chambers— were spread across castles and towers and strange shops that could be felt across crowded city blocks. 

And here whole towers’ worth of homespun magic was condensed into a simple kitchen. 

With the Lucian Prince sitting among the clutter and chaos and the warmth. 

Nyx was getting a headache. He lingered by the door and watched the wizard move with a familiar ease around the Prince. A kettle was moved from the stove, boiling but quiet; a cracked mug was taken from a hook, and dried leaves and flowers and berries added to the water. “I doubt his Majesty simply gave you a letter and told you to go. There would have been something. And why a Witcher? Of all the armies and guards at his disposal—”

“Witchers,” Nyx sighed, watching two more mugs with handles and lips worn smooth joined the first on the crowded counter; “are quiet. Discreet.”

The wizard offered a wry smile as he charmed the tea to steep without the necessary time; “Witchers are anomalies. Uncontrolled, ungoverned.”

“Unreliable, you mean.”

“Yes. And while you may have your orders, I have mine.” A mug was placed before the Prince first, the second offered with a look of challenge at the silver medallion gleaming from Nyx’s neck. “I am responsible for the care of his Highness.”

“Iggy-” The weary tone in the Prince’s voice made Nyx smile as he took the tea and chanced a sip. 

“You’re welcome to join us, wizard. The road gets lonely.”

A soft, disapproving hum and the magician— this ‘Iggy’ as the Prince named him— retreated to his own tea. “Preparations need to be made here. You were granted three weeks in that letter, it takes three days to get to the Citadel of Lucis.”

“We’re not going to the Citadel.”

The Prince frowned at that information. “The letter said you were to bring me to my father.”

“Aye, little Prince,” Nyx offered a shrug and a wolfish smile of his own to the consternation of the confused men before him; “but his royal majesty isn’t in the Citadel.”


	4. The Cursed Manor Estate

When he had visited the Citadel at the summons of King Regis Nyx had barely noted the portraits and paintings that had lined the long and stately corridors. He remembered the vague sense of being watched by more than just the armoured guards with their spears and pikes at the ready— the eyes of long dead Lucian kings and queens had seemed to follow him as he listened to the commission and plans the current King had wanted to hire him for. The vanity of royals had always been lost on him, but there was almost the sense of a shrine to the darkened hallways of the Citadel— a tomb or memorial, like an obelisk raised on a hill after a battle. The remnants of the long dead ancestors bearing down or built into the skeleton of the foreboding structure of the Lucian palace. He recalled with a vague sense of unease, the way the Lucian portraits had been hung— linear, uniform, forgettable unless walking the halls with the purpose to study each indifferent royal countenance. Like studying the names in a graveyard. 

But here in the manor set out in the quiet country estate, he couldn’t help but examine the multitude of paintings that seemed to hang in every room. They were changed regularly— he could tell with the lack of fading, despite the placement in the brightest corners and most open spaces. They had been gathered with no strong sense of reason— no uniform lines or formal theme. Even the strange ghostly marks left in the wake of the seasonal changes seemed to dot the walls as whoever placed the art simply secured them where they willed. 

Some had already been taken down in preparation for the departure, others removed for a seasonal change as the spring rains gave way to the deafening brightness of summer. They were individually wrapped in freshly laundered linen he had seen the mage, Ignis, taking in from long lines strung up among the garden vegetables and between the trees in the tiny orchard nearby. They had been laid in stacks, leaning against a wall as they waited for the crisp white cloth to hide them again. But among the images and rooms still untouched by the packing, Nyx had noted countless landscapes and depictions of the farmlands and forests. There were dusky evening colours and vibrant summer days, still ponds with wading birds and golden fields of autumn wheat. Flowering spring trees and the elaborate greenery that could only have once been the manor garden had adorned the small guest room he had been granted. The hallways lined with depictions of quiet ponds teeming with fish, and the trophies of boys— glass tanks that dominated the end of the hall lively with frogs swimming through reedy water. 

And portraits. 

He recognized King Regis in them. The confident posture, the kindly smile a ghost on his lips, the raven hair that his son had inherited slicked back to the style of his youth. There was the same bearing as the King he had met in the Citadel— a stern sort of kindness Nyx imagined was comforting to the citizens of the kingdom when rumours of war blew across the borders. 

He recognized the queen long gone from the descriptions of her beauty that had reached even the Witchers out in their hidden fortress. Starlit eyes and raven waves of hair brushing her shoulders rather than tied back and up in the tight confines of a more appropriate royal style. If he studied it long enough, he could see the echo of something wild in her portrait that he had seen in Noctis. The soft smile, the same lips, the same quicksilver eyes laid out in paint as an almost arctic blue. Like spring ice on a thawing stream. Or the glacial run off of the far northern stretches of Niflheim— where Nyx had seen the ice creak and break from the creatures lurking just below the surface, and those which stalked the barren tundra looking for the life that had gathered in small settlements. 

The queen, Nyx thought, reminded him of death. But he supposed that was to be expected from the image of a dead queen. 

But there were none of the seemingly shy Prince who seemed happiest sitting out by the pond with the cheerful Prompto, mending a fishing net with deft hands while the sun climbed higher overhead. While lines dipped into the little pond without expectation or a sporting obsession. He could hear their voices and laughter carried through the open windows of the study, the hallway, the little kitchen that seemed to warn him away from its door if the magician was out. They sounded like old friends rather than a guard and his royal charge, unfettered by courtly ceremony and sworn oaths.

There was an idyllic sense of wonder to the manor— a boy’s haven, or a sense of childhood he had only heard about from parents begging him to save their wayward children. 

Despite the sun dappled walls and the open run of fields, Nyx knew that there was a reason the boy had been held in exile here. There had been Witchers hired to tread these roads before— he had seen them listed in the census books the alderman had read from. Familiar names, professions, and dates of disappearance. They had been hired by locals and grieving parents to avenge lost daughters and missing sons. To break curses that had plagued the open fields and ruined the farms. 

If the Prince was cursed, he had seen no evidence of it yet. 

The first night beneath the manor roof he had watched the moon creep across the clear night sky, and waited for some sign that the stories were true. That the exile was justified. He had held his medallion in one ungloved hand, meditating on every hum and pulse that seemed to beat against his palm— but he knew it was just the magic of the attending mage woven through the quiet halls and seeping through the sturdy walls. He listened to the creaks outside the locked door of his gifted rooms— the bulk of that large, suspicious guard who had sent him on his way the other morning shifting through the halls in a lazy pace, frequenting the creaking floorboards outside of his door and pausing for long breaths of a moment. He watched, and waited, and scoured the small library of books that lined the few shelves against one wall. His eyes adjusting to the moonlight streaming in through the window as if it was already dawn. 

He had seen treatise on the farms in the area, books of poetry and song, and history of the kingdoms. There were small books on theories of the world— balances of nature and magic and all things a proper guest library may have. But the botanicals and bestiaries specific for the Lucian province was what he had settled for reading without alerting the persistent guard that he was awake. The illustrations laid out in fearsome dark ink with a terrifying attention to detail let him fall into familiar old habits while he waited. 

He had spent the night reading, and waiting, a fist around his medallion. While cat eyes examined ink on the page of beasts more dangerous than the prince sleeping several doors down. Creatures with scales and feathers stalked the pages, great birds of prey deemed ‘living hurricanes’ and mongrel giants named ‘behemoth’ to the Lucian scribes. Creatures with fangs and claws from fair tales that must have coloured the stories of the Prince. 

And there had been no indication of a curse. No transformation beneath a full moon or drawn out by the starlight. There was no howling to shake the manor to its foundation or snarling beast prowling beneath his window or outside of the door— just the guard on his too-frequent rounds. No persistent thrum of the silver medallion to alert him, no frenzied air to set him pacing. No panic from a ravaged barn that seemed to be perfectly peaceful across a small field, its own inhabitants slumbering through the night. 

The second night, he had slept with his hand still closed around the medallion. The pace of the tired but persistent guard lulling him to a rest. His silver knife remained sheathed by the bed, while the steel of the second caught the light through the window as the moon moved across the sky. Not that Nyx had seen it; nothing had woken him from sleep. 

The third, he had left the door unlocked, and his weapons in their sheaths by the little wash basin he filled himself in the morning. The well giving him cleaner water than he had seen in a dozen small towns in the last year, and the stones unmarred by rumoured past struggles. The guard had finally slept in his own rooms across the hall. 

He ruled out the most common curses he had studied one after the other as the nights dragged on. There was no transformation, no bloodlust, no teeming darkness biting at the edges of sanity. Just a quiet house and a young man rubbing sleep from his eyes a full hour after the rest of the house had woken. 

The ghost stories that circled the manor seemed to break apart the longer he was there. No wailing, vengeful spirits wandering the fields; no shrieking banshees to herald the death of a guest. No creaking floors without the bulk of the guard to sound them.

During the days, he was enlisted to help with the chores. With the preparations meant to ensure their departure. He watched the Prince and the royal retinue as he carried the heavy boxes of dusty linens from the attic with the bulky, battle ready guard— Gladiolus, or Gladio as the others called him. He watched the Prince putter from one task to the next set out by the mage; a soft smile and teasing refusal that was never really meant on the Prince’s lips.

Some curses could be activated by jealousy, foul moods, temper tantrums that tore skin from muscle and meat from bones. Some curses, Nyx knew, could present in a flash of red eyes, the sudden marks left by hidden claws— an untempered rage brought on by the noon sun or a petulant reaction to chores like so many other stories of spoilt royal children cursed by nannies and relatives and the servants they insulted. They were promises of untold, unhindered magic sparked into existence by sets of rules that matched the whims of the creator.

But Noctis dutifully tended the paintings and furniture as his mage instructed before he plotted his escape with Gladio each morning. With Prompto each afternoon. 

Nyx had smiled at the sight of the bulky guard keeping watch for the magician before they comically made their escape out to the gardens, or yards pressed flat and dusty with years of training and sparring and the trample of hooves. Not six yards away from the chores still left, and Ignis only reminded them to tend the vegetables (”without destroying them this time, Highness”) before setting the extra work aside for later as deemed necessary. Nyx let himself be recruited in their place, watching the windows and the yard and the gardens as the Prince traded training swords for fishing rods and hunting bows for weighted nets. There was no battlelust or rage in the movements. There was no hesitation to stop when the training was done, or reset when needed. There was no frenzy that overtook the Prince as his bulky guard knocked him to the dirt again and again. Nyx could only see the slight pout that followed a failure, or the same good natured teasing that had followed the chores. 

There was a closer familiarity with the guards, with the magician currently sealing away cupboards and tattered tomes while Nyx held stacks of the books and wrote another day of travel off his calendar. He was anxious to be moving, to be finished with the task he had been set to, and not puttering around some royal summer manor to help with chores.

“We’ve been with his Highness for years,” Ignis said as he drew an intricate sigil in flour dust before he rolled a bouquet of dried sage and rosemary through the mark. There was a different bundle at each particular cupboard the enchanter had wanted to keep protected, jars of spices painted with oil wards tucked into some cupboards and other drawers. The only common element between them was the twine Ignis had seemed to conjure to bind it all. The air hummed with the power worked between his hands, and Nyx was getting annoyed by the responding thrum of his medallion. “Gladio has been his sworn Shield since they were both children. Prompto is the newest recruit Noctis befriended.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t you?” Ignis smiled, taking the books from the Witcher’s arms to seal away like his tools and equipment. “In any case, we are reluctant to trust him to you.”

“I’m not in the business of looking for trouble, wizard.”

“No, I’m sure the beasts and monsters just happen down the road while you’re minding your own business.” The last cupboard was closed with a very final thud of the door. A silver key turned in its lock and returned to Ignis’ pocket. “We’re trusting you with something very important to us—”

“Your Prince—”

“Don’t interrupt.” Now Ignis finally turned from his task and faced the Witcher directly. Outside, amid the birdsong and gentle trudging of horses being exercised in the yard, Noctis’ laughter could be heard carried over the small yard. A moment ago had been the clatter and ringing of sparring swords, the shuffle of footwork on the sandy yard finally completely dried of the storm that had passed four days ago. Despite the stern tone, Ignis’ posture and expression were relaxed; the air of magic finally dissipating around him and the fresh mid-morning air trailing in on a breeze. 

“His Highness,” Ignis frowned and chose his words more carefully; “Noctis is dear to us. We are his family. You will guard him with your life.”

“I promise.”

“A Witcher’s promise is only worth the coins he’s paid in.”

“And the words of a wizard are lighter than air,” Nyx crossed his arms, itching to be free of the kitchen, the chores, the manor. “My job is to deliver him safely to his royal father and that’s what I’m going to do. You’re welcome to come and make sure it happens.”

“I have matters I need to address. Otherwise, I assure you, I would be watching you like a hawk.”

“Don’t doubt it. The guards—”

There was no interruption from the magician this time, no sharp word breaking between them to continue a debate or plan. But the thundering of horses striking up the lane seemed to be amplified in the little manor. There was a moment of excitement as the few inhabitants rushed to watch the mounted knights approach— the Lucian colours a dark shadow moving across the undefended lane. The guards had been called back from their little hut by the road, and Nyx cursed the lack of warning ahead of the thunderous approach. 

The lead rider continued forward as the others slowed to a stop and broke formation. No rider dismounted until the scowl of the Lucian Marshal could be seen from the front steps where Ignis and Nyx had rushed. The Marshal’s own personal colours were a muted wrap around his arm on his light armour, but there was no mistaking the silver lions of Cor Leonis flanking the personal seal of King Regis. Not when the man was close enough to turn his sour look to Nyx standing unarmed a few steps from Ignis’ side. “Where’s the Prince?”

“Marshal!” The Prince rounded the edge of the manor, covered in the tawny dirt of the training grounds from where he had fallen. His sworn Shield in a far more pristine condition by comparison to the Prince’s dirt streaked clothing. 

At the sight of the young man, the Marshal dismounted and offered the first crack to his stern glower. “Highness, are you okay?”

“Yes, of course. What are you doing here?” 

“Making sure you get off okay,” the Marshal nodded towards Nyx. The Witcher was more than familiar with the Marshal’s professional disregard; it had been Cor who had sought him out to drag him before the King for the particular commission. “There’s been a change of plans.”

“A change?” Now Nyx straightened and stepped forward— hopes for several days’ of easy travel hanging in the balance. 

Cor summoned the Witcher to his side, indicating to Noctis that they would need to discuss things in as private a setting as they could get given the open yards and lingering guardians. The gathering of Cor’s knights started to unpack the camping gear they had carried with them— the young guards moving to help with the commotions and lead the horses away to fresh water troughs by the already full stable in pairs.

They walked in the opposite direction as the guards gave them a wide berth to talk. Across the training yard and around the manor towards the shade of the little orchard. Cor glanced around out of a hard learnt habit before he was satisfied they could freely speak. 

“You were told that the King was no longer in the Citadel?”

“Yeah, he’s gone to Caem?”

Nyx had only been able to explain what he had been told when he had accepted the job. The route through quiet roads and across the rural fields had been planned first by the King’s advisers, then modified by Nyx’s own experiences with those same routes and roads. The advisers in the Citadel had drawn out their plans against his suggestions, bowing only to his recommendations when he refused to give in to the strategies and suggestions of men who had never faced the rural roads. The goal of the reaching the rocky coastline had been looming over them for the past few days, eating at Nyx’s patience as he adjusted the route in his mind— the shift of the paths, open roads and fields, and ways to keep the Prince from view. 

“No, Highness,” the Marshal said. Nyx’s stomach dropped though his expression barely changed; “There’s been a change.”

Nyx had relied on the coastline when allowing himself the time to wait for the Prince to be ready to leave— a boat was always possible if they waited too long to follow the winding roads along the Lucian coast. The trip was still possible if this new development hadn’t moved their destination too much further than Caem. 

“Where’s my father, Cor?”

“Tenebrae, Highness. On his way as of last night.” The Marshal glanced to the Witcher and seemed to decide that it was in everyone’s interest to focus on the more important pieces of his report. “There’s been an attack.”

For the briefest of moments— easily missed if attention was turned to the Marshal’s grin features— something flashed through the Prince’s quicksilver eyes. On instinct, Nyx reached for the silver medallion around his neck, but it remained dormant. When the Prince spoke, it as through a clenched jaw and with cold silver in his eyes. 

“What kind of attack?”


	5. Almost Ready

There was a gathering of the officers around the Marshal and the Prince in the sanctum of one of the larger studies. The magician had joined them, the guards sullenly eavesdropped from the door. Some things had been decided before the makeshift council had been called.

The young guards, despite their protests, were to remain with the Marshal and his men until certain measures were taken among the scattered knights and soldiers of Lucis. The magician— divided between the duties of his order and the loyalty to his Prince— had agreed to seek the advice of wiser, more experienced members of his Brotherhood. They had agreed that acts of war were no trifling matter, and there were protocols in place to ensure Lucis’ survival through the years. 

Nyx was the only one left without a set role among the gathered men. 

No one stopped to question him walking through the manor and around the yard to the stable that had been a centre for the new activity. He ignored the bustle that had fallen over the quiet manor estate, and slipped away from the meeting that seemed intent in laying out the next few months as if they weren’t written in fate. The rickety carriage he had followed across the back and overgrown roads had been moved, the fresh tracks and bent grass suggesting that the young boy that he had seen running errands and tending to the horses had returned back toward the Hammerhead Ranch shortly after the company of knights arrived. He didn’t blame the boy, leaving the tending to the officers’ horses to the puffed up squires jostling to claim places and supplies better suited to the stations they had built up in their minds.

Though it was likely that the boy’s skills had been commandeered by the Marshal as well. Messages and orders would need to be spread across the country, and a Ranch friendly toward the ruling family would be a very large target if the war spread. 

The knights had gathered themselves into a makeshift camp out on the stretch of grass alongside the lane. Weapons had been gathered and set leaning withing reach against tent posts and the old fences half hidden by the unkempt grasses; cooking fires and pits set along the lane, where the grasses had been cut by a handful of the squires and youths that always seemed to trail after these sorts of royal processional groups. The horses not taken to the stables were left to the fields, with their own attendants watching them and the roads carefully. Officers had been invited into the household, the plans and orders laid out on the table while the Witcher excused himself before he could be dismissed. Before the looks of distrust and disgust could spread from one officer to another, and be reflected in the eyes of the manors’ inhabitants. 

His own horse, Flora, had already taken a shine to a black bay gelding with white fetlocks settled in the stall next to her. Nyx huffed as the mare nudged him in a delayed greeting, pausing at trying to get attention from the other horse long enough to demand a treat. “At least you got a friend.”

He thought of the road ahead— the changes that would need to be made. Caem was four days of an easy ride through the rural and wilds of Lucis. He had counted on that when he agreed to the deadline presented by the King and the Marshal at the time. The coast, as winding and dangerous as it could be, was something he was familiar with. The rocky shores had always reminded him of the trails back at the Witcher school— where he remembered training along narrow paths between bouts of spear fishing in the rough waters. He had looked forward to the familiarity of the crashing waves and distant ships with their sails catching the winds from Altissia. There had been a certainty in the job when he accepted it— a route that he could take back to his usual Path once it was done, and with more than enough coin to send some back to Drautos in lieu of a new apprentice to train. But he was no longer sure of the roads ahead.

And he thought of the road behind. Of the news and rumours that had been seeping through the northern borders; whispers of war that had grown over the years into a dull roar. It had been easy to rely on the solitude of the Path— winter at the school while the rumours built the world outside of their little stronghold. The words had even reached Drautos in his orderly solitude deep within the school until even he— their sullen and fatherly Captain— had left the comfort of the stone walls to see what was happening for himself. He had returned more sullen and grim than before he left. As if a new dark cloud had joined the stormy moods of the hidden fortress.

He thought of the quiet fortress tucked away in the canyons of Galahd, and how easy it would be to slip back to the comfort of the broken walls and familiar stones. How the hidden trails and roads through the thick mountainous forests would shield those he knew from the dangers of the kingdoms rattling sabres at each other and demanding oaths of fealty as they always did. How easy it would be to break away from the politics and ‘bigger picture’ of the coming storms and war. 

Because that was all the talk of officers and knights and Kings seemed to bring. 

“When did you intend to leave? Dawn?”

Nyx cursed his lapse in attention. He had missed the soft steps that were lighter than he expected given his own familiarity with royals demanding that all eyes be on them. Soft steps that he had heard through the manor when he had been listening for claws and scratches and signs of a curse. Flora greeted the Prince with a snort and a nudge against Nyx’s shoulder in her attempt to shuffle closer to the Prince. 

“You’re not really cursed, are you, Highness?” Nyx turned to look over Noctis. The Prince would be easy to hide— he was slight, unassuming— with the right cloak and manners. It would be easy to keep him from attention on the road.

“I don’t know.” The Prince had a strange talent for slipping in and out of the shadows around him, Nyx thought. He watched, and waited, and seemed aloof when he was paying attention with a skill that most courtly sorts spent their lives mastering. “They say I am.”

“You don’t know?” Noctis smiled in the shade of the stalls, and Nyx noted that the horses didn’t shy away from him as they would a monster. There was no nervous skittering or anxious whinny, no movement in the cramped stalls as the horses tried to distance themselves from the Prince. The gelding greeted the Prince instead with a soft snort and stretch for a treat. There was a small shrug in answer to his question as Noctis raised a hand to the horse’s nose in familiarity; “We should leave sooner, rather than later. How much time do you need to get ready?”

“I can be ready by tonight.”

There was still planning to be done among the officers who would take control of the manor under the Marshal. Squires put to work clearing the rooms started by the manor’s inhabitants when the tasks outside were finished, and the Prince’s retinue commandeered by the King’s knightly order. There was still chaos of the arrival to order and the road to plan. Maps and supplies, rations and at least a day’s worth of confirmations and messages to send out at best. 

“Tonight then,” Nyx agreed, wondering if the Marshal would try to counter the whim of the Prince. So far, Lucis had been nothing like the other courts he had visited. “Can you read a map?”

A nod was his only response, and Nyx was cornered just after lunch was served to the gathering of knights to make his plans with the Marshal and the Prince’s retainers. They spoke together in the magicians kitchen, with Ignis puttering around the recently sealed cupboards and cabinets until he found the specific blends of herbs and teas and flowers he was looking for. He listened to the plans with half an ear, nodded here and there, glanced at the maps as he passed with the kettle. Wordlessly, the Marshal traced a route across Lucis. No marks were left on the map, but Ignis paused to stroke his thumb next to Noctis’ temple and muttered a few soft words too fast and low for Nyx to catch. 

He would have sworn it was only the gesture of a lover if his medallion hadn’t vibrated softly in the wake of the spell. 

Another enchantment was placed on the map that Nyx was blind to, but he watched the Marshal’s careful lines drawn with a finger along the marked roads directing them west. 

The King of Lucis had retreated to allied territory was all Cor would provide in front of his knights and officers. The information was marked for the Prince, and the Prince only, until it was assured that Nyx needed to know. The Witcher had decided that the severity of the attack had been worse than they had been told. That the knights weren’t here as a front guard to maintain order in the town and the farms, but the leftovers from whatever battle had set them to flight here now to guard their retreat. 

He looked at the way the young guards helped their Prince pack and plan, and wondered if they had yet realized what it meant to stay at the manor now. 

Gladio met his eyes, and Nyx knew that the young man— as battle ready and well trained as he was— understood their position now. There was more danger that the Marshal wasn’t telling them. The roads were easy enough, Nyx knew from experience of years past. There were beasts along the way— the canyons and caves that shielded the stronghold of Lestallum had been fertile grounds for hunts when he was younger— but the roads were safe enough until they skirted the thicker forests and wilds of unsettled Lucis. 

“You’ll leave at dawn,” Cor stated with a small nod toward the door where the steady shuffle of guards seemed to slow. 

Nyx nodded his understanding of the Marshal’s message. He traced a line along the fields that would take them west, and tapped a grove of trees that had been named as Thommels Glade. It was out of the way, but the narrow lines of a road leading to the foreboding scar of the great canyons that cut across Lucis. 

“We’ll go east,” he said aloud; “toward the main road and join with some merchants heading to the southern coasts.”

Cor offered his own gesture of understanding, folding the unmarked map and handing it over to the Prince. The plans that had been put in place at the Citadel were better known to fleeing staff— to wayward servants who had brought in drinks during the meetings, and among the guards who had lined the halls when the royal Shield had expressed the importance of adhering to the routes and timelines discussed. Nyx could admit that he preferred the Marshal’s methods now; they had a destination and a way to start. A route and a basic road to follow at least part of the way. 

That was all Nyx needed. 

They would be skirting the larger cities and the more established towns. Despite the ease of hiding among the crowds of anonymous merchants and travellers and citizens, there was also a higher risk of more dangerous eyes on them. Ignis would be travelling to Lestallum anyway, and he was safer visiting the affectionately termed ‘power plant’ of his Brotherhood alone. He would be under the scrutiny of other members of his own schools— those who had joined courts and kingdoms and had taken up spying with all their tricks and charms for those who might be working against the dethroned royals of Lucis. The shadow of the enchanters raised over Lestallum could stretch far though the city itself was loyal to its kingdom, and the mage did not need an added distraction from navigating those less than endearing interactions. 

It would be safer for all involved to hide the Prince on the road. Keep him moving and away from his known associates. He had a Witcher to watch his back, anyway.

“Your guards will go with you, Highness,” Cor said, glancing at the young guards for the first time since the meeting started. Since they were pulled away from their usual duties. Their armour already set aside for the freer movements of lighter uniforms. There had been arrangements, Nyx knew, made for the two young guards already under the Marshal’s care and for their own safe travels across the kingdom. “Supplies are still being prepared.”

Nyx offered a quick bow to the gathered retinue and a glare to the eavesdropping guards lingering outside of the door. 

It was a small thing to take his leave as a dismissal. The wary looks that followed him from the little conference was enough to ensure his reputation was still intact. There was still the low murmur of distrust of Witchers spreading through the ranks, and Nyx intended to use it to his advantage. He offered a bright smile to one hulking guard who had stepped into the doorway out to the little garden he had thought was so peaceful before the manor was turned into a makeshift barracks. 

The walls had been picked clean of paintings and trophies, the shelves emptied of books until all that remained were the bones a home had been built on. Nyx met the disapproving glare of the guard evenly, still smiling as he waited for one of them to make a move in the narrow hallway. 

“You’d best be moving on, Witcher.”

“You’re blocking the door.” Nyx crossed his arms, hearing the activity around him grind to an anxious halt at the possible confrontation. Someone deeper in the manor lifted a heavy sword from where a line of them had been left leaning against a wall. “Move and I’ll be out of your hair.”

The moment before the other man— a good head taller than the Witcher— stepped aside enough to let him pass out into the warm light of the clear sky was accompanied by more swords being lifted from their resting places. Nyx ignored the sound of the big man spitting at his feet as he headed for the stables, where Flora was being prepared for the next day. The squires scattered to other work as he arrived, tutting softly to the mare who was still trying to befriend the gelding in the next stall. Noctis’ horse. 

“Not going to happen, Flora,” Nyx muttered and checked his saddlebags, only food was missing from his supplies. He checked the heavy leather bag every Witcher carried before he shouldered it and decided that the afternoon would be better spent gathering herbs and ingredients needed for his elixirs. At least he would keep clear of trouble if he was digging through ditches and the forest. 

He trusted that the Prince would be making their meeting when night fell.


	6. A Ride Forward

Whatever spell had been woven over the manor house to keep it hidden and homely had been broken. 

Nyx had been made acutely aware of the stately home with its intricate Lucian details as he rode away from under its shadow. The stone walls were darker in the fading sun, the garden with its little well and pond more broken. He had watched the rising light of candles and chandeliers shining through the windows as the afternoon sun had started to set— campfires and cooking fires burning through the hastily shorn grass of the fields lit the lane leading to the road, while the house itself seemed to now be teeming with life— and wondered how it had been hidden for so long. The stone of its walls once more seemed foreboding and dark in the early night, the stretch of stars over the garden as he remembered banished by the shining pikes and spears of the patrolling guards. Formations and routines already pulled tightly together even as he was leaving; the manor guarded like a palace beneath the darkening sky. 

Even if not for the regiment of armours soldiers, the manor had been pulled from whatever dreamlike state it existed in and re-rooted firmly into reality.

No one had paid attention as he led Flora and the black gelding from the stables. Squires had rushed to fill the stalls left empty with their own masters’ steeds before Nyx had even cleared the doors. No one had questioned him— despite the story the Marshal had concocted to excuse his absence— as he mounted and rode west over the fields, the second horse tethered grumpily to his own and protesting the new adventure with disapproving looks back to the safety of the manor stables. He was left alone once out of the immediate sight of the Lucian knights, the short range patrols along the road and through the fields more focused on the horizon, than the lone Witcher wandering out about his own business. 

There had been no questions, no demands made; no need to show the makeshift commission for a werewolf rumoured to stalk the nearest forests and the distant neighbouring village that had been drawn up by the Marshal that had come with a bag of Lucian coin that covered an allowance paid in Niflheim gil. Coins which he now separated as he waited— eyes on the far distant light of the manor little more than a bright smear on the horizon. He had settled beneath the cover of the creaking trees of the forest that would stretch— according to the maps— to the great divide of the Taelpar Crag of Lucis that cut the kingdom apart. Above him, in the nightly breeze, the trees moved; brush that had finally been dried by the past few days of sun cracked and echoed between the younger trees that spread the forest further into the unkempt farmland. Nocturnal beasts skulked the hidden paths behind him, and the distant trot of fresh horses against the quiet roads carried the calls of the Lucian knights on patrols. 

But Nyx focused his attention on the manner. And on avoiding detection as the patrols made their way across fields. 

The horses sensed the magics before he did. They had started to skitter— dancing away from the change of air— before the medallion around his neck hummed in alarm. The winds gathered together and Nyx guided the mounts a few safer paces away from where the air bent and reality warped. The portal opened with little ceremony other than the strange wind. 

For a moment he caught a glimpse of Ignis in the shifting light and shape of the magic; the warmth from the kitchen workshop bleeding through to the night air. The Prince stepped through as if travel in this manner was an everyday occurrence, and the magic sealed itself shut behind him. It was brief, and powerful, and Nyx wondered just how commonplace this sort of spell was given the way Noctis smiled at him in greeting, and stepped forward to ensure his horse could carry the light bag that had travelled with him. 

“Ready?”

Nyx let the question hang in the wake of the dissipating magic. The air resettling to the soft breeze from before, his medallion calmed and cooling against his chest, and the crack and snap of shadowed brush broken from scattering animals quieting again. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The manor would wake in the morning to the Prince’s absence. Ignis would be on his way to Lestallum to get a better understanding of the state of the world, and the young Shield and guard would be hidden among the Marshal’s ranks. There would be no search or alarm raised— and those who did try to initiate a hunt for the young royal would be questioned by Cor Leonis himself. It would leave them to seek out the forest roads through Thommels Glade— sheltered by the thick woods deeper into the forest, where the canopies twisted together in an ancient and natural weave— and on to safer trails. 

Nyx knew the forest, but not as well as he hoped. The overgrown roads had fallen into further disrepair from when he had last passed through the area, and the trail markers had rotted away until they were only stumps of rotted wood that were indistinguishable from the rest of the fallen young trees. With the loss of the farmlands and citizens to mind the fields, the workers and trappers to tend the forest also moved on. But Nyx did not get lost in forests. Not when the stretch of dark shadows obscured the sunlight, or when the creak of branches and brush not yet dry from the most recent storms suggested creatures larger than foxes trying to catch their scent. He judged the time by the songs of the birds hidden among the leaves— the warbling calls of marshland fowl and twittering of agile songbirds— and his location by the soft distant babble of a stream. Riding through the night, he was reassured that they had taken the right direction when he spotted the light of the rising sun through the younger trees on his left. 

The shadows stretched across the overgrowth as the light climbed higher, chasing the night deeper into the woods. The new light did little to illuminate the old roads they had meant to be taking. 

It did, however, allow Nyx to see the way the Prince seemed to doze on his steed. Upright and relaxed, with no fear of slumping off to either side. It was admirable, Nyx decided with a wry smile, given that the way was uneven and his horse was just following along after Flora. 

When they came to the clearing with its babbling stream, Nyx stilled both horses and offered the Prince a wry look. “Why don’t we take a break here?”

“Here?” To his credit, Noctis didn’t start awake or make excuses for his doze. But he glanced around the open clearing with its sun dappled grass and clean water with a nod. “For how long?”

“How long do you need to sleep? A couple of hours? Until nightfall?”

“I can keep going, Witcher,” the Prince drew himself up with the haughty imperiousness of his station, and Nyx was reminded of a cat that used to den by the focal stones of power in the village nearest the fortress in Galahd. The feline pride carried from cat to kitten as Nyx remembered, though the toothless threat of a scratch or hiss that came with the puffed chest and annoyed sway of a tail was lost with the Prince. “It’s not part of the curse, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Nyx dismounted with a smile— gathering the horses together to let them graze and drink— as Noctis stretches and followed his example. The grass was soft, the sky above clear between the boughs and leaves straining above them. There were old trails cut through the thick woods by deer, marks left on trees where growing antlers gouged out brittle bark and soft new growth. Nyx was instinctively drawn to the small tells of wildlife— training and experience filling in the details of the forest that others might have missed. Even the most experience trackers would have mistaken the gouges deeper through the young trees for the cuts of antlers of larger bucks. 

The paw prints in the mud by the stream made by a creature heavier, bigger, than an average wolf lost and separated from its pack. There were trails deeper in the woods, old and weather worn, and nearly lost already from disuse. The hunting grounds of a werewolf stood out to him. The transformation bed by the stream, the gouged trees where hands grew claws and wood splintered beneath the inhuman and unbridled strength. Somewhere— deeper in the thick of the woods and beneath the shade of an outcrop or hill— would be a den. 

Cor’s false commission to send him on his way with a heavy pocket of coin may have been rooted in truth. 

“What are you looking for?” Noctis asked, already pulling the saddlebags from his gelding to search for their lunch. 

“Werewolf.”

“A werewolf?”

“Old trails, though. We’re not in its territory.” Nyx joined Noctis— now searching the woods where Nyx had been staring— on the soft, sun warmed grass. Where the overgrown scars were already disappearing into the woods There was no need for a fire yet. Not while the sun remained overhead and they had no reason to stay longer than necessary to rest the horses. “It’s a few years old at least.”

“I’ve never seen a werewolf,” the Prince mused as he selected a bruised apple likely packed by Ignis before they left. 

“Good,” Nyx turned his attention to Noctis again, recalling the earlier thoughts he had of beasts skulking the manor estate beneath the stars. Thinking back on the tales and stories of dead Queens and missing servants. “Just what is your curse, anyway?”

Witchers were meant to be fond of the direct approach, Nyx thought. Observation had done little to enlighten him to the nature of the Prince. He had seen the flash of power in quicksilver eyes, heard the light laughter when time was spent with his friends in the warm summer air, watched the practised grace in a flick of a fishing line or a throw of a net. But no single thing had indicated more than royal blood and good breeding; Lucian stock that would explain away the dark hair and pallid skin. Perhaps the mix of elf or enchanter along the line, but no curse or hellish beast lurking beneath the surface that Nyx was familiar with. No indication that the Prince of Lucis was deserving of the exile that had sheltered him from his family and court for the bulk of his life. 

Instead of answering, Noctis shrugged and smiled; “You found out what happened to the maids who used to work at the manor right? And the servants?”

He remembered the red haired rusulka and her kelpie mount in the wetlands across from the manor. Deep in the swamps where the waters ran deep and the villagers from beyond the forest’s edge had gone to fish and collect waterfowl eggs not farmed nearby. He remembered the stories of young men fleeing through villages nearby to earn their fortune in the larger cities— stables and farms left empty as the suitable working men ventured elsewhere, away from stories of curses and princes. There had been fishermen for the rivers slowly drying up as the summer wore on, driven deeper into the swamps where the water still ran fast enough for roe and an occasional adult trout among the young. 

“They ran away.” Nyx nodded— the villagers had been terrified of the manor and its stories. Had been relieved as he passed through the nearby towns in its shadow.

“Most did. Some went into the swamps and just never came out.”

“That wasn’t because of you.”

“No. There was something else.” Noctis tossed the core of his apple to the forest, listening and watching for the birds and squirrels that would usually flock to a free, if meagre, meal. He settled himself into the nook of a tree, cloak wrapped closer as he closed his eyes against the day and trusted the Witcher’s instincts to alert him to any dangers clawing their way through the underbrush. “Right?”

“A kelpie.” Nyx said, pacing the edge of the little clearing to examine the trees for more markings. The scars ran deep, but none were fresh; the brittle, jagged bark healing with the furrows left to offer perches for birds and lizards; ”It created rusulka in the swamp by accident. Maybe one or two left there by jealous lovers or the usual dramas of a village.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I cleared it out before coming to the manor.” He had told the story to Prompto, he supposed it had been passed on to the Prince shortly after. Maybe even in the same guardhouse; Noctis didn’t seem the type to let himself stay confined to the manor prison. “How did you know there was something else there?”

A shrug was his response, and Nyx resisted the urge to press for more information. Whatever it was, the curse was hardly a danger to humans or humanity on whole. There were no signs of bloodlust or unnatural transformations. No fangs waiting to be revealed or hidden power locked away in that small, dozing frame. He could no longer justify a strictly professional interest in it. He let the subject drop, justified by letting the Prince rest beneath the gnarled boughs of a tree where he could doze until the pressure of time and distance urged them back to the road. 

It was nearly noon when they were back to picking out the trail beneath the brush.

The forest was a near endless stretch of green shadows around them. The young trees still crowded to the open areas— fighting for the sunlight not yet stolen by the wide, older trees that thrived on the decay below them. The gnarled bones of the old growth twisting through the dark soil that had sponged up the recent rains, knots of damp and decaying wood curled and coiled their way around the greenery trying to find a hold in the same spongy earth. Young saplings bent beneath the drought created by the more selfish roots, already showing signs of being torn apart for salvage by forest rodents looking for nesting materials. The ground was nearly black with the decay of the leaves that had fallen the autumn before; the damp and wretched rot of wood and leaves and other things Nyx wasn’t interested in thinking about seeped into the air around them, letting it hang heavy over the overgrown road. Deeper in, Nyx could make out darkened clearings in the gaps where lightning struck trees had cracked and smoldered before being doused by the rain; the splintered and charred logs now supported by the still sturdy branches preventing them from collapse to the forest floor. 

They passed an occasional illegible road marker already being reclaimed by the forest. Soft and breaking in even just the lightest touch as they passed. 

“How do you even know we’re going the right way.”

“Sun rose on our left.”

“And now?”

“And now it’s above us,” He guided Flora carefully around a break in the road where he could see a ditch— naturally furrowed through a creek bed or dug out by some farmer a few generations ago, he couldn’t tell— with the remains of a cart that had been abandoned for several years. They were getting closer to a town. Or a farm. Or something else. “We’re not lost, Highness.”

They weren’t. Nyx had been lost before. He had been turned around in deeper woods than Thommel’s Glade and on roads in far worse shape than the little path quickly being lost to the wilds of the forest. He had been lost in blind panic in ruins of Taelpar Crag, in the ruins of Steyliff Grove, and things older than even the Elves could remember. He remembered the cold pillars of ancient stone with their carved faces and scriptures lost to the eons, the way his hand scraped against them as he was desperate to leave a trail— even if by his own blood— to mark his way. There had been half crumbled walls, and the pillars of ancient forest trees thicker than most castle towers. He had been stuck for days in darkness in the caves of Galahd Canyon, guided back to the sunlight by the distant, earth shaking cries of a Zu tending its nest. 

Wandering along an overgrown road that had been forgotten and untended by the Lucian farmers through a thick forest not even guarded by dryads was not lost. 

They even still had a good half-day worth of light to travel in. With the edge of the forest still within sight a handful of metres and a line of persistent young trees away. A stretch of greenery planted and tended to in neat rows beyond that— the verdant fields of Lucis still thriving in the bright light of an open afternoon sky barely marred by wispy clouds. 

“If you say so,” Noctis followed the careful guidance, glanced at the decrepit and decaying cart before urging his own horse forward to ride alongside the Witcher rather than behind. “When was the last time you came through here?”

“A few years.”

“Right.”

“What?”

“You’re sure we’re not lost?” the horses seemed to greet each other again in the gloom of the forest. “Or taking the hard way?”

“Listen, Highness,” Nyx finally turned to him, glaring at the Prince rather than the road ahead; “we’re fine. It’s not the best road but—”

Just beyond the shade of the trees, the open fields stretched in a more inviting manner. The sun beat down on the dry grass and still green wheat growing in neat rows. The old road they were on was sheltered and out of sight of the distant farms, but Nyx could see the dark clothing between the furrows of crops and movements of people edging toward the forest who were not used to crossing the fields. They were awkward and weighed down by their armour, their steps heavy against the raised mounds of soil between the rows. But that wasn’t what caught Nyx’s eye.

“Shit.” He bowed in his saddle, and pushed Noctis from his horse with a hard shove caught in the momentum of setting himself into a forward motion. The gelding startled and pranced ahead, mercifully reluctant to leave its rider or bolt into the more foreboding undergrowth. Noctis rolled, fury a flash on his features before he saw the shaking feathers of an arrow buried in a tree above him. Nyx left him get to safety where he could— to collect his horse and bolt if he wanted— and steadied himself on how own horse to break through the weak barrier of trees that had sheltered them. 

Nyx didn’t care which option Noctis had chosen; he had already turned Flora into a charge toward the fields. She was not a warhorse— there was no bulk or muscle like the larger beasts that had been left at the manor with the knights— but she was fast. Nyx was upon their assailants with a kukri drawn from its sheath before the bows could be bent. He threw one— the shining silver of the blade a flash in the air before it was embedded in the the throat of one man— and nearly ran the second down beneath Flora. She was more manoeuvrable than he had expected and he had barely managed to direct her to turn back before he saw the dark-clad trying to knock an arrow into place. Aard was thrown ahead of him on instinct, and the man’s bow broke from the force of it at such a close range. The man fell to his back, and his ribs were swiftly crushed beneath the horse coming down on him like a thundering storm. Any scream that may have attempted to leave the caved in chest was lost when a hoof came down on a vulnerable throat as they rode past the bloody heap. 

Flora stuttered to a stop almost at the barrier of the trees where they had started. Where Noctis was regaining his feet, reaching up to tug the arrow from the tree. The black feathers to guide it had been clipped by the flight through the young trees— thin and spindly branches a hazard to any archer hoping to fire true— but didn’t hold any answers for them. 

Nyx dismounted in a swift motion, throwing Flora’s reins to Noctis with an order to stay in the trees. 

There were no other dark figures moving through the fields. No one else lurking in the shadow of the granaries or further farmhouses. But Nyx kept his steel blade in hand all the same. He wrenched his thrown blade from the first man’s throat and glanced across his armour for anything that might identify allegiance. There was no plate armour or shining metals to hinder the archers’ movements, but their lighter leathers and padded cloth was empty of any stitched sigils. No bands of colour or etched markings of rank. Nothing to distinguish them from brigands other than the uniformity of the outfits. These were not village archers turned to robbery along merchant roads or laying traps in the forests. There was nothing mismatched about them— nothing cobbled together from scraps or worn down from years of thrift. 

“Lucian bows,” Noctis offered, eyes on the weapons and not the bodies. 

Nyx cleaned the blade before he tucked it away again. The Prince was right. The shattered bow by the crushed body was carved with a military precision, Lucian marks across the grip and arrow rest were uniform and linear, while the rest carried an almost floral artistry. But they were almost identical. 

“Let’s get moving, Highness.” 

They left the scene at a light canter, tracing the young edge of the forest encroaching onto the fields in a rush to keep to clearer ground and get distance between them and the spies who may be watching them. Weaving back into the tree line, they slowed to a trot until forced to rest the horses properly. 

By the time they were forced to stop, they had moved deeper into the woods. Deeper to where the shadows had already overtaken the fading daylight and the thick trees had started to stretch taller than most buildings out in the rural stretches and rustic villages. The clearing was not an ideal resting place, not in the light of what the day had already thrown at them. But it was sheltered, and deep, and clearly not visited by the local Lucians. 

The stones first appeared as weather worn boulders. Then a strangely rocky hill. It was only when they had approached the heavier shadows falling across the narrow path between the trees that it became obvious the stones had once been part of ruins. The crumbling walls had collapsed ages ago, torn down by the slow violence of nature. Only the gates— tall, sealed together by something that hummed its way through Nyx’s pendant as he passed through them— still stood seemingly untouched by the forest. 

Nyx was not above sheltering for the night in the shadow of a domed Lucian tomb— beneath the eyes of a forgotten goddess. But he glanced to Noctis to judge how the Prince would react to the ruins. He had seen Witchers— Libertus, Pelna— and civilians alike pace the grounds of similar tombs like restless ghosts, uneasy and unable to rest with the pulse of magic and threat of some divine curse. He had seen grown men and warriors jump at common noises and shudder despite the warmth of campfires, clutching silver pendants as if there was a monster lurking behind the carved stone of ancient doors.

Noctis had already dismounted, soothing his horse after the long and fast ride to escape the threats left in a mess of blood and broken bone behind them. 

“Here?” The Prince asked, hand moving over his gelding’s neck. 

“Here,” Nyx agreed.


	7. The Ruins

“I had always heard that Witchers had black blood.”

Nyx looked up from the little fire that had been kindled in the clearing before the ancient Lucian tomb. The flames danced in the dark shadows of the night; light moving across the impartial expression of the unnamed goddess carved into the smooth stone and still polished after the years. It moved across the dark trees that sheltered them from the winds while the night sky glittered above them, visible through the clearing’s break in the trees. Embers and smoke rose with the light to see the persistent fireflies dancing back to the forest growth; the light dinner of the rations they had brought with them bubbling happily in its little pot over the heat, the makeshift concoction a Witcher’s brew of road stews and forage. He prodded at the collections of meat and vegetables— water taken from the winding stream they had come across time and again in their passage trough the forest bubbling but not yet boiling— and let himself smile at the remark. 

“And who told you that?”

“Pretty sure it was in a book.”

Noctis had settled against one of the crumbled and fallen pillars that had once supported a larger structure to house the tomb. The ruins unrecognizable from whatever their original shape was after the eons left abandoned and untended. Only the tomb, with its’ sealed door and passive goddess stood when all else had shattered to the stony ground they had shaped to their little camp fire. 

“Pretty sure?”

“Or maybe another Witcher told me.” Noctis had closed his eyes as he waited. The meagre meal’s scent carried around them with the smoke curling in the breeze tempted his stomach to rumble. “They came around sometimes.”

Nyx hummed in thought as he stirred the stew and tried to decide if he would rise to the bait. “Going to tell me what happened to them, little Prince.”

“Gladio happened.” A small smile moved Noctis’ lips, and a flash of quicksilver as an eye cracked open to regard the Witcher’s frown at the response. “Sometimes Ignis.”

His mind conjured up the memory of the young soldier and the magician. He had watched the guard, all bulk and brawn, training the Prince in the dust of the little yard between the manor and stable. It had been friendly competition, tests of prowess and strength. He had seen how the soldier had moved, the years of training that would have had to start from the moment the young man could lift a sword coming across in every movement. The man was good, but not Witcher good. 

Not mutated to move faster and be stronger than the limits the human body set. Not vicious enough to cut down a Witcher in a rare chance there was some momentary advantage. And too strict to his military bearing; Nyx imagined his movements in a fight were as stiff and unbending as his training regiments with his Prince. 

But teamed with the deceptive magician who had claimed that little kitchen and shielded the manor from the rest of the country… Who certainly had the steel in his spine and a vicious with that could be matched by a magician’s disregard for common life... 

Nyx prodded the thin stew with again a spoon and watched the fire rather than the meat. “Couldn’t have been very effective if they told you stories.”

The Prince chuckled to himself and moved to fetch his blanket from the little pile of supplies. A small ward against the growing night chill and the eerie sounds of the restless forest. “They were really good at their jobs, I think. And they had good stories.”

“Highness—”

“If you had been sent to kill me, would you have done it?”

Nyx did look up at that question, tapping the spoon against the pot before he reached for the bowls already set aside. He considered the other man, the way they had met, the tales of the Cursed Prince and the missing servants that had taken root in the little villages. He considered the little smile and the flash of humour in those changeable eyes. 

He wondered just what sort of fight he would have been in for if he had been sent to that manor by anyone other than the King of Lucis. 

“No.”

The answer left his mouth before a more rational response could be formed. Before he could deflect the notion with an explanation of what he was— what the contracts were, what he was trained to do— or find a distraction in spooning the thin stew into the bowls. He masked his distaste in the lack of control by pressing the bowl into the Prince’s hands. He masked his surprise at himself with a frown at the smug amusement that met him in the dancing firelight. 

Noctis resettled with his meal, hands closed around the bowl to warm them in the cool night. “We paid them to leave us alone. There was an allowance for it if they wouldn’t be turned away at the gate. Or sometimes Iggy just hid the whole place from anyone with ill intentions.”

“An illusion, of course.”

“A good one, though.” 

Nyx could see the Prince picking around the vegetables to get at the meat in the stew, still smiling to himself. The Witcher was less fussy about the mix of his meal. “Anyone I know then?”

“There was a Libertus a few years ago. He was nice. Prompto went with him back to the village when he returned the money for the contract.”

He could picture that. His brother-in-arms had always been more kindhearted than others. He had always been more willing to smile and sneak away to the little village that barely survived in the shadow of the mountains where the School was hidden. “Drautos always did say he was a terrible Witcher.”

The fire cracked as a log burned through, the sound echoed off the stone of the tomb and the impenetrable trees. It was matched by more natural sounds in the undergrowth— the careful step of a deer started in the night, an owl snatching its own meal from a branch, a ratted branch breaking in the breeze— and Nyx paused to judge if there was anything unusual in the brush. He wanted to focus, to remember that he could hear and see and smell more than the Prince across from him, still separating the meat from the vegetables as the meal cooled with the air. He wanted to focus on anything other than that little smile that seemed so soft beneath the firelight.

He was grateful for the silence that fell between them while the fire crackled between them and the heat washed across the clearing. 

It wasn’t until later— when the bowls had been cleaned and the blankets spread across the cold ground— that the conversation was started anew. Noctis spoke in the dark, as the fire started to die down; “So, do Witchers have black blood?”

Nyx watched the stars above, and listened to the horses settle. “No. Why would we?”

“All the potions and things. The trials that you go through to make you like that.”

“No, no weird blood from those.” 

“Just weird everything else.”

“Go to sleep, Highness.”

For a moment, he thought the order had worked. The fire crackled in protest at the lack of attentions it was receiving.

“Don’t ghouls live around tombs, Witcher?”

“No ghouls here. Go to sleep.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.” Nyx shifted so his back was to the Prince. It left him facing the tomb, with the smooth, impartial stone goddess watching over their little camp. He could swear he once knew her name and role in the ever disputed pantheon of the world. He counted his slow heartbeats in a habit formed after his Trials, nearly dozing beneath that gaze while the Prince finally seemed to settle. 

He woke some hours later, when the fire was little more than warm charcoal contained in a circle of stone and the forest had the grey promise of a clear dawn. Nyx knew instantly that he had been pulled from sleep by a noise not set deep in the woods— not some hart or beast in the underbrush creeping closer to their still bundles— but nearby and unnatural. He couldn’t place the sound— hadn’t registered it before he was pulled from rest— but held his breath to listen for it again, eyes fixed on the bundle of blanket where the Lucian Crown Prince should have been sleeping. 

The noise sounded clear through the clearing, like the chime of a delicate bell, or glass ringing as it was tapped against stone. Nyx expected to hear the following shatter— the musical break of crystalline shards shattering against a stone heard a thousand times before in the halls of nobility as his work disrupted some gathering or another— but the chime faded to silence again. 

He sat up, had on his steel blade and eyes focusing on the source of the noise. 

He saw Noctis standing before the tomb, still and silent in the grey light, bedraggled beneath the silent image of Etro above the tomb door. 

“Highness,” Nyx said, his voice louder than he expected in his attempt to gain the Prince’s attention. The name of the goddess came unbidden to his mind, no longer an elusive figment on the tip of his tongue. 

His movements scraped against the stone of their little camp in the ruins. Alert and focused, he approached the unresponsive Prince. All a cacophony in the morning to drown out the chime that had woken him as it rang out again. He caught sight of the ghostly movement as his world narrowed to the Prince before him; the translucent shade of a sword circled the young man, the chime caused by its ethereal form striking an outcrop of cracked stone on the steps leading down to the sealed door. 

The silver medallion protested his approach, and Nyx tightened his grip on his own blade on instinct. 

“Highness,” he tried again, wary to approach the Prince as the ghostly weapons moved in a lazy circle. It’s blade striking the cracked stone and shattering for a second in a dim light. It reformed in the next instant, whole and untouched and still moving. “Noctis.”

At his name, the Prince seemed to react. There was a slight turn of his head and Nyx saw those quicksilver eyes glazed and dull. In a state of trance. 

“Noctis, wake up.”

The ethereal weapon shimmered and faded and Noctis ran a hand over his eyes; “Ulric? What—“

He seemed to take a moment to realize that he was not waking from beneath his bundle of blankets and cloaks. “What happened?”

“You tell me,” Nyx searched the Prince for any sign of injury, spell, or other indication of what that was. His medallion had settled to a gentle thrum against his chest, its own magic reacting to whatever had started to dissipate. “Did you see anything? Hear anything?”

“No.” But Noctis frowned and his hand lifted to rub the sleep from his eyes again— as if it would bring clarity. “No. It was just a dream.”

“A dream.”

“Yes, Witcher. It’s nothing. I don’t know what happened. I was asleep.”

“Fine, fine,” Nyx stepped back, hands up to placate the Prince with a gesture of peace after his weapon was sheathed again. The horses had started to stir with their movements, but remained calm, undisturbed by the show of chaotic magic that had just subsided. Noctis pushed past him, clearly unwilling to talk about the state he was in. 

Their things were packed in a stiff silence, Flora nosing at him as if in comfort when he went to ensure she was fed. 

They were on the road before the grey before the dawn had fully lifted. By the time the sun had risen, the mood between them had listed considerably higher. The distance set from the tomb was marked by the thinning of the trees and the more vibrant fields they caught in glimpses between the lines of young brush and branches. The gloom of the forest lifted the further south they moved, and the depths of the woods with its ruins and broken stones seemed a distant dream they had both woken from. 

Life beyond the forest started to break past the trees, and the run down little path— the forest road that had been almost lost to the undergrowth and violent reclaiming of the wilds— started to gain its shape. A mile marker became visible at the edge of the woods; the fork in the path snaking off through the fields to a small community little more than a shade on the horizon between the grasses. The forest continued to thin, and Nyx watched the rows of crops for the dark hide armour that had caused such dramatics the day before. 

“You’re worried,” Noctis said as he moved to a trot next to Nyx, eyes scanning the fields. Nyx could still see the light that had been there hours before in the birth of the morning— that silver shine of power. He could still see he little hint of magic and imagined hearing that strange chime once more. 

“It’s my job to worry.”

“It’s your job to fight monsters.”

“And worry,” Nyx offered a smile; “I can do both.”

“You’re worried about me.”

“That is definitely part of my current job, Highness.” They paused at a bend in the path— the road curled away from the shadow of the forest and the town it now led to loomed equally as imposing in the distance. It wasn’t a smear of shadow rising from the crops like its neighbour earlier. The buildings had a shadowy sort of definition that would have been impossible to see with normal senses. Nyx, however, could make out the vague details of the nearest buildings; people moved between silos and the fields, low cottages and taller barns on the outskirts of what was likely a thriving little farm community. “Do you want to risk it?”

“No one knows we’re out here. It should be safe.”

“Someone knows, Highness. The archers had to get their orders from somewhere.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well,” the Prince made the choice for them and started toward the edge of the village, “I’m tired. And we need better food than that stew from yesterday.”

Nyx followed Noctis’ lead along the road with the slightest smile on his lips; “I liked that stew.”


	8. Friendly City

Every inn in every town Nyx had ever come across was almost identical. The world over had the same dark, scarred counters marred by more than just spilt drinks. Each had the same large room filled with wide tables meant for far more people than ever seemed to be in the place at any given time— with a few exceptions for the festivals and tourneys that occasionally flourished enough to draw in more knights and knaves than any town was prepared for— and smaller corners filled with round tables and benches. In the largest establishments, usually set along main roads or in the heart of marketplaces, the tavern and the inns all set aside a number of private rooms for the more anonymous sort of dealings usually reserved for these sorts of places, where heavy doors could be locked, and the sounds of a kitchen or carriage could mask the noises within. The stairs to the rooms of every inn Nyx had ever stayed at creaked at the fourth or fifth step, and the doors protested on their hinges from overuse, locks were worn bare. The same musty smell that could never be chased away by open windows and a stiff breeze lingered as if seeped into the wood and floors generations ago (it very well may have, Nyx supposed). 

And it never failed that there would be some secluded table where Nyx could set his back against a wall and watch the assembling townspeople for trouble. For those side cast eyes and low murmur that often started to fill the place with the stench of apprehension. 

In Lucis, the inns— regardless of where they were or on what border they were built— all carried the same three styles of tapestry on the wall nearest the doorway. The sigil of Lucis greeted any traveller first, is starry shape and geometric patterns a silver set against black for an easy reference of just which kingdom you had stumbled into. The second was the Royal Shield— the sworn protector of the King and the realm— and the imposing gold of the the Amicitia eagle with its outstretched wings and talons clutching a shield a promise of the justice that would be faced if any laws were broken. The third was the coat of arms of the governor, who sat on the King’s Council and represented his own little corner of the kingdom within his control. Nyx noted here that the latter two were the same, which offered some promise of safety for what it was worth. 

Noctis, clearly, had never been in the same sort of place. He sat opposite Nyx, his back exposed to the currently empty room, his eyes taking in every detail of the scarred building and timeworn table. There was the small mercy that the Prince had agreed to wear the hood on his cloak until they were certain there were no eyes on them. 

“Good morning,” the cheerful young woman by long bar backed by a wall of kegs and casks and shelves of various bottles beamed at them when they had entered. She kept the smile even as Nyx saw it falter at the sight of his eyes when she neared them to offer a proper greeting. “In for breakfast?”

“And rooms too, if you have them available.”

Nyx offered a disarming smile of his own— a sympathetic look, a weary hunch of his shoulders, all the tricks he had learnt to ensure he could appear as harmless as possible given his build, bulk, and weapons— as he took his seat first. Noctis, as they had planned, nodded his agreement but stayed silent. 

The young woman looked between them, but nodded, “I have one room, yes. You may need to share.”

“We’ll manage. What was ready for breakfast?”

Noctis settled to watch the traffic beyond the window, their horses hitched within sight at a trough that was a staple for any inn. The village he had suspected had grown to a town by the time they were close enough to really see it. The farms on the outskirts had been quickly dwarfed by the taller buildings and bustle of the early start to the commerce of the day. It had started with the shepherds and swains guiding livestock along the widening road, then then buildings became taller and narrower— the squeeze of a real town already pressing down on them in the rising sun. The dust of the road was kicked up by passing carts and horses, mules driven forward by praise and scorn alike, and the shouts of the market had started to carry on the air. 

They had found the inn just off the main streets and away from the main market square. 

Quiet enough to give them a moment to figure out where they were and what road to take next. A room for the night just gave them the chance to take stock of their supplies. 

A breakfast of porridge was placed in front of them, a fried egg added to the top and a plate with a few strips of thin bacon set between them. 

“This looks like the stuff Gladio eats,” Noctis muttered, still shadowed by his hood and breaking the yolk of the egg to run into the porridge. But Nyx caught the glance to the tapestries on display by the doorway, the prominence of them a quick reminder of the familiar promise of safety the coat of arms represented. 

Nyx offered a noncommittal noise to note his understanding and settled with his own meal while Noctis picked at the bacon. The inn was quiet and empty save for a few new patrons making their way down the creaky steps from the rooms above, so he turned his attentions outside to the scope of the town. 

It was easier to understand the size of the place now, as daylight broke across the dark hills of rooftops. The little village they had seen from a distance grew to the thriving provincial capital that would have bred the Amicitia clan. Like this, Nyx could take stock of where they were, what road they would need to carry on their way. They could have sheltered— if needs be— at the Amicitia manor in the centre of the town, with it’s needle-thin spire a roost for the eagles and casting its shadow down the streets like a clock. The rise of the roof beneath it joined a larger, longer structure that just peeked over the rooftops in the morning light. The Crownsguard ceremonial halls had been a frequent stop for Witchers for years— Drautos’ name still carried a weight with the captains of the royal guard to secure them jobs along their Path, to leave the school alone as its students wandered the kingdoms— but it had also always served as a branch of the Lucian Royal Library. 

“Stay here today,” Nyx ordered, his spoon scraping away the last of the porridge. 

“What? What about supplies?”

“I’ll pick them up. Stay in the room,” a the glare he saw beneath the shadow of the hood, he shrugged; “We can’t risk you being recognized, and this place is likely to know you.”

“This place is likely to protect me. What am I supposed to do all day?”

“Rest? Read? I don’t care. But stay in and don’t make trouble.” In defiance of the orders to behave, Noctis took the last of the bacon before Nyx could pick a slice, and sulked beneath the hood. “I’ll be back around noon. We can leave either at night, or at first light.”

“Fine.”

“Highness—”

“I’m staying put, Witcher.”

Nyx didn’t believe that for a moment, but accepted it as at least some form of promise he could take at face value. He nodded his acceptance of it, and left a portion of the money he carried with the Prince before he made his way out to the quickly crowding streets. 

Calling the place a “village” or a “town” had been a mistake. It wasn’t as impressive a city as Insomnia— the Lucian capital— with its wide and winding streets or the four connected towers of the palace rising over the rest, but it was large enough when seen in the light of true day. The morning greys had obscured just how far it stretched in its little valley, the rural mist that rose over the outlying fields with the sun had faded the now more vivid sprawl of markets and homes— some three and four storeys tall with their patched stone walls and decorated shutters. Shops on the wide main roads offered housing above them, places for workers and patrons aline. More than one storefront window displayed both a “for hire” sign and a “room for let” at passing eye level. 

Nyx had not come this way often. He knew the town well enough, and every Witcher from every school knew that it was not in their favour to stay long. 

It was efficient, organized, and the seat of the Lucian military. 

Signs swaying from arches bearing the Amicitia eagle labelled streets and sectors alike in the morning bustle— the market a cloud of noise and smells that he aimed toward. The ambling pace set by a pair of carts pulled by old mules, rickety wheels threatened by shaking spokes that creaked with every uneven turn in the path. He read the segments of the city as he passed them— markets, clothiers and tailors, farm suppliers— all neatly segmented away from each other, and more importantly away from the cloud of dust and heat that carried over the rest of the city with the constant ringing of hammers against anvils. The Street of Fire was what had brought him through the city before as needed— repairs and daggers and supplies when he couldn’t quite make it back home or find the right Dwarf to handle his steel, or his silver. 

As seat of the Lucian military, it also supplied that military with its weapons. The ringing of metal striking metal started low across the streets, like the morning bells of more pious villages. It started small, with a shout here, a ring, the hiss of steam as hot work was thrust into water. Nyx veered down the streets already lined with patient soldiers and mercenaries ready to deal with their favoured armourers and smiths. Some were in full plate armour, others eyeing up scaled and leather, and some just carried themselves with the steel-stiff posture of a soldier off duty. Regardless, Nyx ignored them in favour of seeking out his own favoured merchant. 

“Ulric of Galahd! You mange-ridden scoundrel, you owe me sixteen gold Crowns!” The Dwarf’s greeting was always the same— the smile wide and voice booming across the crowd. “An’ you’ll be paying that today unless you want my hammer up your arse.”

“Waste of a good hammer,” Nyx slipped into the inner sanctum of the forge, the slowly gathering crowd on the street ignoring the Witcher in favour of looking over the assembled wares being stocked in the more modest storefront— daggers and short swords and curved things that intimidated the more traditional soldier— made up of a long table manned by two intimidating Dwarves armed to the teeth. “I need a favour, Dusty.”

“Oh, of course you do.”

Dustin, or Dusty to those willing to risk a boot and a hammer in sensitive places, was the most accommodating Dwarf in existence. A former guard to the Amicitia family, he continued a long and proud tradition of supplying the Shields with their signature great swords— an honour unsung in the face of so many other smiths vying for the same role— and the Witchers with their silver. Nyx had found, over the years, that the Dwarf was protective of the Amicitia family, and therefore a fierce royalist. 

Exactly what Nyx needed right now. He settled on an overturned barrel weighted in place by bars of iron and kept his back to the growing crowd; a gesture that caught the Dwarf’s attention more than any words or warning could have. “I need a set of daggers.”

“I don’t have any of your Witcher—”

“Doesn’t need to be. Regular steel is fine. But I need them by the morning.”

“That’s going to cost you extra, Witcher. And I like you, but this tab of yours is going to come back and bite you deeper than my blades can cut.”

“It’s not for me, Dusty. It’s for the Prince.”

The Dwarf chuckled at his response, “Sure, and I’m picking scales off a gold dragon for my ornaments. Be sensible, Witcher. Two weeks.”

“Tomorrow.” The coins he had been paid in were already lighter than he wanted, but they still sounded full enough to draw the attention of the Dwarf. And I pay half now.”

“You pay in full, Ulric. I know you, you’ll run off and get killed before you get this credit paid.”

“I haven’t died yet.”

“You haven’t paid yet.” But Dustin’s eyes lingered on the bag and he nodded; “Fine, half. What do you need?”

Back in the inn, Noctis surveyed his room. Nyx’s room. The shared accommodations tucked away in a corner of the second floor, where the floor creaked from settling wrong and the kitchen warmed portions of it in sporadic patterns. The window had been pried open and left that way with a wedge of rotting wood that may have once been a doorstop, but the small gasps of fresh air from the quiet yard where the horses rested in a small stable was heaven sent in the stifling heat of the trapped kitchen air below. He had claimed one of the dusty beds reluctantly, setting his bag on it trying to decide if it was worth trying to get some sleep. 

He missed Gladio and Ignis and Prompto. 

He missed that Gladio, whose sigil seemed ingrained on every building just beyond the window. He missed the way he knew his Shield would have dragged him out from the room rather than condemning him to a day wasted in dusty boredom. He would have explored the town with his friends, begged Ignis to test his skills against the dishes he could smell wafting through the streets and up to him on a tantalizing breeze. Roasting meat, the shouts of merchants, the heavy tread of carriages and carts… 

Noctis pulled his cloak back across his shoulders and ensured the hood obscured his features. 

He needed to breathe. 

As the day dragged on, the streets had filled. Those not following the signs to the markets seemed to be in no rush to move at all. Snippets of conversation floated past him as he moved between gatherings of men and women each seeming to have the bulk of the day idle. Or idle enough to settle themselves in the roads to chat. He heard, in fluttering gossip chasing at his heels, that the kingdom was losing its war and the capital fallen. He heard that their enemies had settled in the ruins of the palace (he couldn’t imagine the great structure of the Citadel with its towers and ancient arches in ruin) and were in the midst of proclaiming a suitable governor. He heard that his father was presumed dead, or a fool for not seeing the attack coming and for sending the bulk of the army and the civilian support of it to the wrong corner of the Lucian map. News travelled from heralds and was shouted down to streets from windows, soldiers in full armour patrolled in pairs, with nervous glances at every covered cart or unfamiliar banner. 

He heard the gossip of the soldiers too; talks of retreats and defeats, of being too far from the capital to support or verify the claims that had started to follow the roads. Muffled by the very real armour and press of people was the clash of swords and whistle of arrows on battlefields hundreds of miles away. Scorn for the foolish King, and his advisers who led him to the path of their defeat. 

He felt the gossip clinging to him, tearing at his attention the way the road tore at his cloak. 

The side streets were quiet. The shadow of the Crownsguard Academy, with its ancient and hallowed walls, was quiet. And cool. A place where he could shelter from the worst of the day without making the trek back to the sweltering little inn where Nyx was likely already waiting and furious. 

No one spoke of the Prince of the falling kingdom. No muttered laments or hateful curses floated around him with the gossip and news. No one spoke of the manor nestled safely in the fields a stone’s throw from the capital, or of the illustrious knights of the Kingsglaive sheltered their now.

Noctis pressed his forehead to the cool stone of the building he had only heard about in Gladio’s stories, and took a deep breath of the fresh air around him. He could feel the stone against his skin, impervious to the heat of the day. The shadow had bled out a little further under the still rising sun, but the dust and heat kicked up around the town’s streets had seemed to stop at some invisible barrier Noctis had already passed through. The noise had suddenly muffled, the shadow stretched around him, and he briefly smelled the torn stone and rotting green of the forest air around him. 

“Noctis?”

The voice cut through the dull whine of the chaos the streets had raised and Noctis searched for its source. He found it in the curious and questioning features of a familiar young woman standing flanked by the pillars of the gate he had passed through in his rush to get off the busy streets. 

“It is you, isn’t it, Highness?”

The young woman stood with her arms full— a basket of feathers was barely protected from the breeze by the cloth covering it. She stood a respectful distance away in the shade of the grand building, the solid foundation of it dwarfing them both. She was alone, and he wanted to brush her off. He wanted to tell her that she was mistaken and lost and all the other things his Witcher— who was already probably angry already— would want him to say. 

“Iris?” He hadn’t seen the girl in years. Not since the last visit to the manor when she spent a summer boasting about her enrolment in the Crownsguard cadet classes. She wasn’t in uniform, or armour. She wasn’t marked out by any badge or banner, but he knew her from the familiar Amicitia features and friendliness. He remembered her quick smile and cheerful disposition that could rival Prompto. 

She smiled brightly at the recognition, “You remember me!”

“How could I forget?” It was something normal amid the chaos of the street, the little alcove he had stumbled across the shield of a haven in the city. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same, Highness, it’s dangerous.” She stepped closer and Noctis smiled beneath his hood, letting it fall away enough to let a bit of the sunlight in. The day was bright around him, and not as warm as he had thought. The summer’s heat seemed to linger just beyond the shade he had found, clinging to the edges of the shadow. The dark stone of the Crownsguard’s home had given way to a small garden back that he had found himself on. The shade cast by a trellis overhead as much as the height of the buildings. He realized that he had passed between a set of old gates similar to the one in the forest; the pillars and dome of a Tomb seemed to rise from the garden grounds like a blight rather than any revered garden walk. He had thought that he had passed through an alley’s mouth, slipping between the foreboding buildings. Iris still smiled at him; “Why don’t we sit down for a bit? I saw Gladdy the other day too!”

“Gladio? Is he still in the city?”

“No, he was passing through, with Cor. They weren’t really clear on where they were going.” The little walkway stayed sheltered and shaded, the greenery clinging to the trellis overhead growing unchecked until it fell down around them in wild leafy vines. The grass had started to sprout between the stone steps, and cracks were becoming more evident the deeper through they moved. Colourful flowers rose from tufts of weeds, and wild bushes left unkempt had scattered themselves across the already narrow path that meandered between this forgotten corner of the Crownsguard grounds. 

They stopped at the little bench that overlooked the royal Tomb nestled between some set pillars; not as grand or ornate as the one from the forest, but the statue was the same, the door was the same. And the echo of something Noctis couldn’t quite remember was the same as it reverberated through the stones around them. 

Iris seemed oblivious to the power clinging now to the stone path and the current in the air around them. “He did say that he was fine though, and that they had plans to ‘keep moving forward’.”

“He’ll be fine, Iris.” Noctis hoped, at least. His friends were left in the care of Cor— one of his father’s most trusted knights— for their travels, and Ignis had stolen away the way wizards are supposed to. Only Noctis can’t remember the last time they had all been separated like this. 

“I know. I know that.” The shuffling of her boots on the stones beneath their little seat drew Noctis’ attention away from the strange source of distraction that had drawn him toward the Tomb. “I just haven’t heard from my father too. Have you heard anything? Anything at all?”

He hadn’t. The life of the royal Shield was not important news to bring to the Crown Prince when it was confirmed that the King still breathed. But he did recall the one saying Ignis seemed determined to drill into Gladio over the years. “No news is good news, right? If the King is alive, then the Shield must be to.”

“But, Highness,” Iris’ hands twisted, and Noctis sensed the holt of her anxiety just as acutely as the threads of power slipping from the Tomb; “is he? The King, I mean. The way people are talking—”

He wanted to scoff with all the arrogance expected of a Prince. He wanted to be certain in his assurances, in the promises he had no right to make. The way people were talking had assaulted him the entire way to this little alcove cut from the bustle of the town. The King was a coward. The King was a fool. The King… His father… 

“They’re fine. I’m sure of it.” Noctis stood again, and eyed up the sealed doors of the Tomb with a wariness he had never really felt before— the sense of anticipation, or ownership, an eagerness to see what it was that was calling him closer so clearing— and offered the girl a weak smile. “I need to get back.”

The magic whispered promises of power. He could hear them echoing through the ancient stone. 

He had never wanted power in his life. 

Iris walked with him to the inn at the edge of the town; past the busy markets where she talked about her plans and the training that had been halted for all cadets of the Crownsguard in her rank. They had been reassigned as apprentices— fletchers and smiths, armourers and stable hands— or messengers, kept out of the cadet barracks or shuffled around to safer accommodations. Noctis understood what it meant; the youngest, least experienced of the Crownsguard were to be protected in the event of invasion. While the army had been spared the brunt of the assault they could not have defended against, the King had arranged for the protection of others who would still be killed as blooming threats when the war reached them. 

The promise of power from back in that little garden twisted in his stomach. He could defend the town with that power. He could fight the threats and shield the people from the dangers closing in. 

The inn rose from the row of shorter buildings along the street like a beacon on its own. Noctis was grateful for the hood of his cloak when he spotted Nyx returning with bags over his shoulders from a market street, as it hid his blanch at the realization that he may not make it back first. Iris went her own way, basket of feathers still in hand as she returned to whatever task she had left when meeting Noctis. This left the Prince to hurry past the confused landlady and growing crowd for lunch. He rushed back up the noisy steps, barely minutes before Nyx had come through the same from door, and nearly ran to the sweltering little room above the kitchen. He had barely thrown himself, cloak and all, to the dusty bed before his Witcher was through the creaking door. 

He wasn’t a child. He knew that. But he hadn’t rushed to beat a bed-check since he was fifteen and had slipped out to watch the stars with Prompto and a pilfered bottle of wine Ignis had been saving. Now, he was already thinking up the excuses he could offer his guardian Witcher when the heavy steps continued past the creaking door. 

He could hear the smile in Nyx’s tone; “Just how much trouble did you get into?”

“None,” Noctis twisted, giving up any charade at trying to say he was cold enough to sleep in the cloak. Or that he was tired enough to have left it on. “I met Gladio’s little sister.”

“What happened to staying in?”

“I was bored.”

“Right.” The Witcher dropped his supplies down by the door, and sat to remove the dusty clothes he had been travelling in. “So I’m not letting you out of my sight again. I go out, you go out. Got it?”

“I’m not a child to be minded and—”

“And trusted to keep your word, little Prince?”

Noctis refused to sulk. Then realized that the Witcher did intend to fully undress before him. Sputtering, Noctis threw his cloak at the man; “What the hell?”

“I need a bath. Go get the water, would you?”


	9. A Bath

“You’re ridiculous.”

The inn had more than just washtubs stored away for requests such as the Witcher’s. The shed— small, damp, and little larger than the guardhouse Noctis was more familiar with from the manor house— out by the stables had been set aside as a sort of washing room for weary travellers with the coin to pay for the luxury. Noctis had turned the iron key in his hands once he had retrieved it, all but throwing it at the comfortably disrobed Witcher picking through a rucksack of clothing. Nyx had dragged him along to the little enclosed space with the excuse that Noctis could clearly not be trusted when left to his own devices and unsupervised. 

Noctis decided that the Witcher was either lonely, or insane. Possibly both. 

A wall have been built over the well where they drew the bathwater, bisecting it and allowing some sort of breeze to seep through the steaming air when the fires were lit and the water steaming. The other half of the wall was open to the afternoon air, where the stable hands and innkeepers could draw for their own needs while their guests were still afforded the consideration of privacy. 

“You’re the one facing the wall in a bathhouse, Highness.”

He had never really been shy before. Not when he had grown up with the likes of Gladio and Prompto and the crystal clear little pond that was often as still and smooth as a mirror. He had spent summers with his friends, swimming and shedding clothing in the height of the noon sun. He had dozed in the shade of the garden wall— half-dressed while Gladio read aloud some new battle philosophy or dreadful story of knights far away— and the water dripped from his hair to the parched grass beneath him while the sun did its work. 

He had never felt the need to settle in a resolute sulk away from the sound of splashes and sputters, listening to the water being moved from copper basin to large washtub. He had never stolen glances in polished mirrors like he was now, watching someone stretch and scrub and relight the little fire with some gesture or other to keep the water warm. “You have no shame.”

“Am I supposed to?” Nyx caught his eyes in the polished mirror with a grin that was more devilish than Noctis would have thought possible. “Is that one of the stories; the Modest Witcher who rides the countryside begging for work?”

Noctis turned enough to throw a washcloth at him, it’s dissatisfied little plop into the water encouraging his own fires to rise. He was not some blushing and meek, sheltered child. And he had turned enough to see that gloating grin. 

It was stifling in the small space; the wood smelling of rot and soap and whatever oils had been spilt over the years. The steam rose around him, clinging to his clothes and skin just as much as the smell of horse and the dust of the road. But the Witcher had moved efficiently in lighting the fires and filling the tub at the earliest moment, ignoring any chill that had made its way in between the cracks or from beneath old boards of the walls. It was worse that the tiny window Noctis had sat himself at in what amounted to a damp shed only opened a crack to let the steam out and the breeze in. It was hardly enough. It shuttered out the world, until he was counting knots in the wall and steadfastly ignoring the reflection of the Witcher lounging in a tub that was clearly too small to promote any sense of luxury.

“Stop sulking and get over here.”

“What? No.”

“You need a bath, Highness. You smell like horse.”

There was a challenge in the Witcher’s voice. It could have echoed through the room, reflected in the mirrors and beating against the half-rotted wood. Noctis knew when he was being baited. 

He turned full to glare at the smirking man, and started to undress. 

They took dinner on the way back through to their rooms. 

Dressed in fresh, lighter clothes and barely damp as the afternoon heats started to dissipate they searched out a corner of the tavern and Noctis let Nyx continue to do the talking for them. Dinner was a plate of crusty bread and a stew that Noctis couldn’t completely identify; though the potatoes and carrots in it were obvious enough, he had suspicions of the meat as if bobbed through the dark stock. Nyx seemed perfectly at ease with his back against the wall as it had been that morning and his eyes scanning the growing crowds coming in with the travellers seeking shelter for the night. 

Nyx dipped his bread into the gravy as his spoon scraped the side of his bowl to chase an elusive scrap of meat. “Better?”

“Shut up.”

Any witty remark Noctis would have expected was left behind that infuriating smirk. Noctis stole the bread from Nyx’s plate in retaliation, soaking it in the stew until it was soft and dripping as much as his hair. At least while wet, his hair nearly formed a curtain to obscure his features, and the Witcher hadn’t chided him yet about the lack of the riding cloak to finish the job of hiding him from view.

As the tavern started to fill, Noctis saw Nyx shift in his seat. He saw the way the cat eyes narrowed and focused, watching the shuffle of tired farmers, workers, and merchants make their way through the inviting doors for a warm meal and a rest. He saw the smirk thin, and the way the crowd brought an unease, even as a bard started to command the attention in the room. Even as any wandering eyes left them for other interests— like the food, the songs, the friends and messengers passing through. Travellers from the roads outside of town let their weapons rest against the counters and tables, set precariously across laps or left hanging within reach at their sides. 

“I’m going back up,” Noctis announced quietly. His half finished meal abandoned to the table. To Nyx’s whims to pick at the leftovers or to the small army of servers that had started to appear from behind the bar as the night progressed and the tables filled. The life beyond the walls of the safe haven starting to get louder, rowdier, as the business of the day came to a close and people were searching for distractions from the news of war. 

Nyx nodded and Noctis pulled away to pick his path through the people still searching for seats of their own. He caught glimpses of men in armour outside of the doors, a nervous patrol waiting for relief at the only inn not within the direct confines of the town. He saw their Lucian crests shining in the early evening, and wondered at the unease that set in him. He thought of the bodies left in the fields they had travelled through, the archers who had fallen to Nyx’s skill and quick manoeuvres, trampled beneath his horse. 

The bow one guard carried was identical to those left broken in the fields behind them. 

He was urged on his way by the grumble of a Dwarf moving through the crowd with the roughness of someone used to pushing their way past oblivious and taller folks. Noctis took the stairs up two at a time, shaken from his thoughts by the shove and eager to get away from the noise of the tavern. Even if it was just an illusion of solitude. 

The noise carried through the old floor and Noctis listened to the drunk arguments and chatter that carried up to him; the cheerful bard calling for requests and coin rising above the dull roar of the patrons more familiar with the place and the others there. He couldn’t lock the door without leaving the Witcher stranded outside, but one of Nyx’s blades— the silver kukri he had explained was intended for monsters— was left with his belongings on the second bed.

Noctis wasn’t sure when he fell asleep despite the noise and heat of the tavern below him, but when he woke, he was clutching the silver blade. 

It took a moment to realize what had woken him: the Witcher had set a wrapped bundle on the chair with the rest of their possessions. Even half asleep, Noctis could see that amused smirk that was quickly becoming familiar. 

“Afraid of monsters, Highness?”

“Shut up,” Noctis grumbled and set the weapon aside on the short nightstand between the beds, pulling the thin blanket up and over his head; “and lock the door.”

“Your wish is my command,” Nyx chuckled, but the heavy twist of a key in the doors lock, the scrape of a rope latch set in place as a secondary precaution, offered some piece of mind against the raucous drunks below. Noctis dozed as he listened to the Witcher move, the scrape of his boots on the floor, and the creak of the second bed as he settled. “Go to sleep, little prince.”

“Go to sleep, Witcher.”

Secure in the strange bed in the strange inn, with the persistent and alien noise of a town around him, Noctis’ dreams were broken and restless. He dreamt of the tomb where he sat with Iris, and imagined her face in the place of those stone goddesses who watched over the sealed doors— the heavy iron decorated in delicate silver Lucian vines to ward the ghouls from the bodies rotting within. Or to keep those within from breaking out to wander the unsuspecting streets. A forest rose around them, shrouding the tomb from the watchful eyes of prowling enemies as it grew from the neatly trimmed flowerbeds of the little alley where he had rested, dulling the road beyond the shadow. He dreamt of his friends, marching the long roads with Cor’s knights, a battle or ambush away from being like those broken bodies left in the fields on the border of a dark forest road; Prompto’s broken bow left with his shattered body in the bloody grasses, Gladio trampled beneath the Witcher’s steed. He dreamt, restless and dark, of Ignis with his magic in the towers of Lestallum, caged in some dusty library while the world marched on beyond him. 

He dreamt of a silver wolf sitting outside the arch of the tomb in the forest. Its eyes shaded in the darkness, but its fur a shine in the moonlight ruffled by the cutting wind. The wind whipped through the trees around them, but the wolf could have been a statue rooted in place before the heavy tomb doors; a silent guardian to warn him away, flickering in the night as phantom blades spun around him. 

His father’s voice— familiar and soft, too soft to understand— rumbled through his dreams with the wind. 

As he strained to make out his father’s voice in the chaos— inching closer to the silver wolf and the sealed tomb— the dreams started to break apart around him. There was a growl as he touched the heavy door with its silver decoration peeling away from the weight of time, and the world shattered. 

Noctis woke with a start as Nyx kicked the foot of the bed, shaking him from trying to hear what soft memory of his father he was chasing through his dreams. 

“Come on, we need to go,” the Witcher said, already dressed for the road and his dark hair plaited away from his eyes. 

The light outside suggested that the red dawn had just barely broken the horizon. The heat of the kitchen below the rooms had abated in the night as the fires cooled when the meals were traded for beer in the tavern that he had left busy. But Nyx was already moving and alert, reclaiming the silver blade Noctis had reached for in the night. The bags were packed and set by the door, ready to move at a moment’s notice. 

“Come on, Highness,” the Witcher said with another kick to the bed to shake Noctis in encouragement. “Can’t leave without you.”

“Then let me wake up,” Noctis covered a yawn and oriented himself with the room, stretching before setting to finding his boots. “We’re leaving this early?”

“The sooner we go, the sooner I get you to your father and get paid.” 

Noctis ran a hand over his eyes, trying to clear the blur from the morning rising around him. “Right. Yeah.”


End file.
